
mm 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Shelf JMJLJL3 U. 


-7 Si 

















* 


























































































































































. 









































































































































































































































































































































































rO 


Under the Pruning-Knife 


A STORY OF SOUTHERN LIFE. 



MARY TUCKER MAGILL. 

H 


PHILADELPHIA : 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK, 

NO. 1334 CHESTNUT STREET. 


T2- 3 •*> 


COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY 

THE TRUSTEES OF THE 

PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF PUBLICATION 
AND SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 




Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers and Electrotypers , Philada, 




CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

George Dalrymple’s Marriage 7 

CHAPTER II. 

WOODLAWN 21 

CHAPTER IIP 

The Sisters 31 

CHAPTER IV. 

Child’s Play 55 

CHAPTER V. 

Our Neighbors 63 

CHAPTER VI. 

Deserted 67 

3 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

. PAGK 

A Winter in the Mountains 76 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Retrospect . 88 

CHAPTER IX. 

Romance and Common Sense 92 

CHAPTER X. 

An Autumn Flitting 106 

CHAPTER XI. 

A Discovery 116 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Return of the Wanderer 128 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Lin Disappears 150 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Chapter of Lin’s Story 162 

CHAPTER XV. 

Lin’s Story Continued 186 


CONTENTS. 


5 


CHAPTER XVI. 

PAGE 

Harry’s Message 206 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Ways and Means 218 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Near the Gates of Death 235 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Misplaced Confidence 242 

CHAPTER XX. 

Lin Speaks 250 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The “ Literary Messenger ” 262 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A Chapter from Lin’s Diary 270 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Following the Clue 280 

CHAPTER XXIV. 


Retribution 


290 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

PAGE 


Harry’s Story 306 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

The Lost Sheep Brought Home ,, 315 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


Conclusion 


324 


UNDER THE PRUNINGKNIFE. 


CHAPTER I. 

GEORGE DALRYMPLE’S MARRIAGE. 

I T is rather embarrassing to me to be called upon 
to give my testimony in this case, because, for 
one thing, I am too old to make a first claim for 
authorship ; and besides, I am an interested party, 
and so in law could not be called in as a witness. 
But I am only one among several speakers, and, as 
my journal has faithfully recorded every event, I 
cannot refuse to do my part in giving to the world 
a strange and tender story, the actors in which have, 
so many of them, stepped off this mortal stage. 

Forty years ago ! How strange that it should 
be so long ! I was then twenty-five years of age. 
There ! I have let you into the secret about which 
all unmarried women are said to be, and are, per- 
haps, sensitive. Yes, however much they may 
brave it out, there is somewhere a twinge which 
asserts women’s nature when they tell their age. 
Well, forty years ago I laid away my youth with 

7 


8 


UNDER THE PR UN1NG-KNIFE. 


its lost love in one grave, and, planting some sweet 
flowers of memory to mark the spot, watered it with 
my tears and turned away, saying, as many another 
has done before and since, “ I will never know hap- 
piness again. I will endure life till my summons 
comes and I go to join my loved and lost beyond 
the floods of time.” 

But we seldom guess aright about our future. 
Joy has come to my life many times since that 
day — not the wild, exuberant joy of early youth, 
but the calm happiness of the Christian, seeing the 
Father’s hand in the blessing bestowed and feel- 
ing the Father’s love in its denial, with the blessed 
consciousness of the Father’s eye and care upon 
every step of the pathway of life. It was but the 
first volume in the book of my experience which 
closed with this episode ; the second opens with the 
present story. 

I once went with some friends to visit a great 
fruit-farm belonging to an old Scotchman. As we 
lingered under the beautiful apple trees, hanging 
heavy with fruit and bearing ample testimony to 
the skill and intelligence of the owner, our eyes 
were attracted by some gnarled and twisted speci- 
mens with their wormy trunks and their defective 
fruit strangely out -of place. We asked an expla- 
nation, and the owner’s answer contained a life-les- 
son which was a sweet comfort to the sore, tired 
heart I bore about with me. 


OEORGE DALRYMPLE'S MARRIAGE. 9 


“ Well, leddias,” he said, “ I feel ashamed of 
myself to see those sad blots on my orchard, but 
I will soon remove them. Just look at these two 
trees side by side — this with its smooth, straight 
trunk, its loaded branches and its beautiful fruit, 
and that with its knotted bark, its worm-holes and 
its dwarfed and wretched fruit. Yet this last has 
had ten times as much labor expended upon it as 
that, and here is the explanation. Some years since, 
I bought this place with an orchard upon it, but 
so misused and neglected was it that most of the 
trees were fit only for firewood ; so I cut them 
down, with the exception of one here and there, 
the best of them, which I reserved till my new 
trees should be of bearing age. But for the most 
part it has been labor thrown away, for they have 
given me more trouble than they were worth. I 
have had to work round the roots and cut out the 
worms even to the hearts of the trees. I tried to 
straighten the trunks and to smooth the bark to 
make them more sightly. I do like things ship- 
shape, and, first and last, what with pruning and 
digging for worms, half of each tree has been cut 
away. But they were too old to accomplish any 
good. Just see here and here and here !” and the 
impetuous old man plucked apple after apple from 
the branches above his head. “ Not a sound one 
amongst them. The worst of it is that the worms 
get at my young trees and give me still more trou- 


10 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


ble. I shall cut them all out another year, and 
shall depend on my young ones. 

“Now look here,” said he, turning with par- 
donable pride to a beautiful specimen of his care 
and skill. “ I never saw a more unpromising twig 
than this was. I had to tie it to a stake in five or 
six places before I could make it grow perfectly 
straight. The worms from its neighbor, there, 
had a wonderful fancy for it, and I had to cut 
them out time and again ; but the trouble seems as 
nothing now, when I see its straight, smooth trunk, 
its vigorous branches and its beautiful shape. It 
can’t be hurt now, and, except an occasional gentle 
pruning, it requires next to no care at all. The 
fruit is perfect.” 

This was my lesson. Are not Christians as trees 
in the orchard of God, our great Father, often mis- 
used and neglected till they are crooked and gnarled, 
deformed by worms at the heart, while the scars of 
past wounds disfigure and mar the beauty of their 
lives? They suffer severely from God’s pruning- 
knife, which cuts deep to eradicate the evil. Their 
branches are one after another pruned away, and 
still the fruit borne is imperfect; and before the 
work is completed the measure of their lives is filled 
out and they must make room for others. 

1 thank God the work in me was begun early in 
life ; and although I was but a crooked stick at 
best, and had to be bound with chafing thongs to 


GEORGE DALRYMPLE’S MARRIAGE. 11 


the upright stake, yet I was conquered at last. 
Many trees have gone far beyond me in fruit- 
bearing, yet God has helped me to bring some 
fruit into his garner ; and now, though my trunk 
is bowed with age, I can still bring forth fruit to 
his glory. And when my time and my work here 
are done, I shall be transplanted to bloom in per- 
petual youth and vigor in the garden of my Lord. 

It was one of these thongs which was chafing 
my spirit when I received the following letter from 
Judge Lyle Wallace, an old friend of my father 
and well known in his State and beyond it as one 
of Virginia’s most gifted and revered sons : 

“Richmond, March 15, 1844. 

“ My dear Ellen : You have been much in 
my thoughts of late, particularly since your last 
sad affliction, and I only wish it were in my power 
to help and to comfort you. Perhaps it is ; at any 
rate, the hope impels me to write to you. I think, 
my dear — excuse the freedom of an old man in call- 
ing you so — that there is nothing which so binds 
up heart-wounds as occupation, and so I have occu- 
pation to propose to you as a panacea. 

“ But, while it is my earnest wish that you may 
see fit to accept my proposition and that it may 
prove congenial, I am obliged to confess some self- 
ishness mingled with the desire for your good, 
as my proposal is that you will come to the assist- 


12 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


ance of Mrs. Wallace and myself in the upbring- 
ing of the children of George Dalrymple. You 
knew George, did you not ? He was often at your 
father’s house when you were a child. At any rate, 
you know — as does all the world besides — the story 
of his sad misalliance. 

“ That marriage eventuated even more sadly than 
our worst fears could have anticipated. His father 
aged under it, and as a last hope advised George to 
accede to his wife’s wishes and take her back to 
Paris, thinking that with this question — which had 
been productive of such painful discussion between 
them — once settled he might gain that control over 
her fickle, vain nature which was the only hope of 
any domestic happiness for them. So it was agreed 
upon ; the plan was carried into effect, and Mrs. Dal- 
rymple — I can hardly give her the honored title — 
readily consented to leave behind her two infant 
daughters, the younger, Linda, being not quite a 
year old and Eva less than three. 

“ The tender affections of the unfortunate young 
father, as a solace for other disappointments, had 
centred upon his little daughters; so that it was 
almost like rending soul and body apart to separate 
from them. But, alas ! he too well knew that his 
wife would not give to them that care their tender 
age demanded and w r as in no respect fitted to train 
their developing minds and characters; so with a 
sad heart he departed, and my poor friend, his 


GEORGE DALRYMPLE’S MARRIAGE. 13 


father, brought the children to my wife, who gave 
them the place in her heart and home which has 
always been held by our children and grandchildren. 

“ The history of the next few years was full to 
the brim of disaster to the Dalrymples. George was 
absent five years, and, although he wrote constantly, 
his sensitive nature, almost womanly in its refine- 
ment and shrinking delicacy, seldom touched upon 
the subject of his grief ; but it was not hard to trace 
its ravages in the melancholy strain of his letters, 
though he often made an effort to hide it by assum- 
ing a playful tone to the children, sending messages 
from mamma which we elders knew emanated from 
himself alone. 

“At the end of his five years of absence George 
suddenly made his appearance at his father’s house 
alone — a man so broken that it made the heart sick 
to see him, and with the story of his loneliness so 
plainly written in his face that none asked him to 
give speech to it. I heard from his father, in whom 
alone he confided, that the wretched woman left him 
to escape his reasonable remonstrances against the dis- 
sipated life she persisted in leading and his earnest 
entreaties that she would return with him to their 
children. George never held up his head again, 
and, in despite of the strong tie his children held 
upon his life, in less than a year after his return he 
sank under the disease — consumption — which had 
laid his young mother in an early grave. 


14 


UNDER THE PR UNTNG-KNIFE. 


“ During this time he never heard one word 
from his wife, and from that day to this no certain 
tidings have reached us, except that in answer to 
researches made by agents of my friend we heard 
of the sad death in a burning theatre in Paris of a 
nameless young woman who in some particulars 
answered the description of George Dalrymple’s 
wife. My dear old friend John did not long sur- 
vive his son, and, dying, bequeathed his little grand- 
daughters to my care ; and they have ever since been 
objects of our most tender solicitude. Their peculiar 
disposition makes a stronger claim upon the generous 
heart of Mrs. Wallace than even her own offspring, 
for whom nature secures all nature’s rights. 

“ This is now a critical period in the lives of the 
little girls, and, unwilling to trust such precious 
charges out of our sight, we are anxious to secure 
for them the services of one who will complete and 
fill out our plans for them. We want not only a 
governess, but a friend. Mrs. Wallace is growing 
old, and finds it difficult to give to the children that 
care which she used to give, and which they require 
now. My dear friend, will you come to our help in 
the matter? It will be a work of great interest,.* 
I feel sure, and I think the children will reward 
your care. 

“ Now for business arrangements : . . . 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“Lyle Wallace.” 


GEOROE DALRYMPLE ’S MARRIAGE. 15 


For the benefit of my readers I will here fill out 
Judge Wallace’s narration. 

The friendship of Lyle Wallace with John 
Dalrymple was lifelong, a thing inherited. Their 
fathers — the one from New York, and the other 
from Virginia — were friends. John was on a visit 
to this friend of his father when an event occurred 
which cemented the alfection of the two boys. 
They were out swimming, and Lyle, sinking from 
some accident, was saved by his friend from drown- 
ing. From that time, like David and Jonathan, 
they were united closely as brothers. John made 
his home in Virginia near his friend, and married 
in that State, Wallace soon after following his 
example. But from now their lives ran diverse. 
Mrs. Dalrymple died within the first year of her 
marriage, leaving one son, who was named George 
Wallace. Although still in his early youth, the 
bereaved husband never married a second time, but 
devoted his life to his son. There must have been 
something staunch and enduring in the nature of 
this man, so tenaciously did he hold fast to the 
affections of his youth. This nature he bestowed 
upon his son, to whom he strove with strength and 
gentleness to supply the place of the mother he had 
so early lost. 

As the boy grew into manhood the father seemed 
to renew his youth, sharing his studies and pleas- 
ures ; he seemed cheated out of his maturity by his 


16 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


son’s joyous nature. After George’s college course 
was concluded his father planned for him a tour to 
Europe, that in the sober age of the Old World he 
might supplement the youth of the New. They 
parted, father and son, regrets for the separation 
mingled with bright anticipations of their reunion, 
when both would profit by the gains of the one. 

Alas ! who could have predicted the fatality of 
the step ? One year passed away charmingly, profit- 
ably, to the youth, drinking inspiration from histor- 
ical founts, poetical aspirations rising as he followed 
the bard up the blue Rhine, lingered beside the 
beautiful Lac Leman, traced the course of the great 
military leader over the St. Gothard pass, and at 
last arrested his footsteps in fascinating Paris, where 
he was content to rest a while. 

Returning late one evening to his hotel, as he 
passed into the main entrance his attention was 
arrested by cries of anguish, and, impulsively fol- 
lowing the sound, he entered a chamber where he 
found a golden-haired childish figure thrown upon 
the body of a man who lay upon his bed with a 
ghastly wound in the temple — dead. Paris was 
too busy to linger long over such a scene ; one or 
two came and looked upon it, and went away. Not 
so the young American ; on inquiry he found that 
that dead man was Monsieur Alante, an adventurer 
well known in the gambling-salons of Paris, where 
he had gained a precarious living for himself and 


GEORGE DALRYMPLE’S MARRIAGE. 17 


his young daughter. How he had met his tragical 
end none knew ; he had been found dead, and had 
been brought home. 

Perhaps George Dalrymple would have been less 
quixotic had it not been for the despair of the beau- 
tiful daughter, a girl of sixteen. He strove to soothe 
her grief, and buried her father ; then, having done 
so much, he found there was literally no one to do 
anything else. When he inquired for her relatives 
and friends she passionately declared herself alone 
— utterly alone — and looked so beautiful in her help- 
less grief that George fell desperately in love with 
her and, blindly following the impulse of his mad 
passion, married her, thinking, with the confidence 
of youth, that so much loveliness of person must 
have a like loveliness of mind and heart. 

So the news came, with the half-told story that 
George was married — yes, married to a girl about 
whom he had nothing to tell except that she was 
beautiful as an houri and that he loved her. It 
was a terrible blow to his father, but he obeyed 
the claims of the inevitable and forbore to give 
expression to his disappointment and fears when 
such expression could do no good. He even sent 
words of affectionate welcome to the young wife 
and bade George bring her home, and then set to 
work to prepare his home for the young mistress. 
He even tried to cover his apprehensions of evil by 
drawing mental pictures of the future happiness of 
2 


18 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


his home, in which pictures the new daughter held 
a conspicuous place. 

The ardor of the youthful lover had not colored 
too brightly the beauty of Matilde. I perfectly 
remember her appearance. She was not the style 
we associate with nativity in France ; I have often 
thought that her mother, at least, must have been 
of Saxon blood. She was as fair and golden as a 
sunbeam. Looking upon the exquisite exterior, one 
almost pardoned the folly of the enamored lover. 
By her own account she had passed a wandering 
life at German watering-places in summer and at 
Paris in winter, sometimes at school for a little 
while, but generally mistress of her own time and 
movements. Petted and caressed for her dangerous 
gift of beauty, she grew up a creature undisciplined 
and wild as a Bohemian, following each impulse as it 
came. If it had not been for the meeting between 
herself and the young Virginian, her lot might have 
been a very different one. 

George was not long in discovering that the beau- 
tiful child he had married was not all his fancy had 
painted her. Her want of education shocked him, 
her vanity made him tremble, but he was still under 
the spell of love, and rejoiced that she was so young, 
pitied her for the misfortunes of her life and planned 
to educate and train her into all he could wish — a 
perfection suited to her exquisite beauty. Alas for 
the disappointment which awaits any such schemes ! 


GEORGE DALRYMPLE’S MARRIAGE. 19 


A husband is seldom a good educator for a wife, and 
in this case there was but little underneath the fair 
exterior to work upon. 

Mrs. Dairy mple had imbibed a passion for the 
only phase of life she had ever known; she was 
not willing to exchange the flattery of the world in 
general for the more sensible devotion of her hus- 
band. He wearied her by his admonitions; she 
did not marry to learn lessons. The stateliness of 
the society she met in Richmond was inexpressibly 
tedious ; she was continually committing some act 
which outraged polite usage and mortified her hus- 
band and his father, until she became clamorous to 
return to Paris that she might enjoy the only free- 
dom she at all appreciated, that she might get rid 
of the trammels which bound her to a life she hated. 
The husband still hoped that her woman’s nature 
would develop with her motherhood. Vain hope ! 
The birth of her two daughters in the first two years 
of her marriage served only to show how utterly 
nature and nurture had combined to constitute a 
woman wanting in every element necessary to fill the 
sacred position of wife and mother. The children 
wearied her ; she was too young to settle down to 
a nursery. In short, it was an irreparable blunder, 
which worked the dire devastation of the Dalrym- 
ples, father and son, and left the innocent little ones 
without the care which nature provides for the open- 
ing life of chilhood. 


20 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


This brings me to the point taken up in Judge 
Wallace’s letter. It did not take long to decide upon 
accepting the offer made me. I wanted an object 
in life — to feel that I had still a place in the great 
human family and could be of use to my kind, 
making others happy if I could never be so my- 
self. My woman’s heart lightened at the prospect 
of having little children about me ; the charge of 
training their dawning beings had a charm to me. 
The offer came, too, at a time when it was neces- 
sary for me to provide a support for myself. This 
did so amply, but still all this, I thought, was but 
a device to fill out the measure of my days. God 
would let me help others; for me happiness was 
over. We often find, like Solomon, that when we 
ask our heavenly Father for gifts which will enable 
us to do his will to the best advantage, he adds to 
us blessings that we had not dared to include in our 
supplications. 


CHAPTER II. 

WO OB LAWN. 

TT was the habit of Judge Wallace to spend his 
winters in Richmond in the performance of the 
duties of his profession, but as soon as the spring 
suns brought with them their enervating results 
the hospitable doors of Woodlawn — his mountain- 
home — flew wide open to admit not only his own 
family and descendants, but many friends. 

Woodlawn was a hereditary possession — one of 
those homes now so rare in Virginia — known every- 
where for its liberal-hearted hospitality. Virgin- 
ians are not less generous and warm-hearted now 
than were their forefathers, but, alas ! we have 
fallen upon evil days where thrift and toil are 
absolute necessities, when the crust is hard to earn 
and the dainty bit which dogs were wont to pick 
up under their master’s table must perforce be dis- 
pensed with. But in those halcyon days of the old 
State it was different, and, whilst we must admire 
the courage which has faced misfortune without 
flinching, yet, as the captive Israelites hung their 
harps on the willows and wept as they remembered 

21 


22 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNIFE. 


Zion, so do we drop a tear over the beautiful past — 
a past in which the old mother played so graceful a 
part, and with such grand courtesy, so winning, so 
dignified, obeyed the gospel injunction, “Use hos- 
pitality without grudging, for God loveth a cheer- 
ful giver.” 

So it was to Woodlawn I went when I had ac- 
cepted the offer tendered me by Judge Wallace. I 
shall never forget the manner of my arrival and my 
welcome. I wish I could lend you the ears and the 
eyes of my memory that you might see and hear as 
1 still seem to do what transpired that sweet sum- 
mer afternoon so many years ago. I shut my eyes 
upon the present and recall the past. 

It was before the days when railroads had latticed 
the face of Nature and locomotion was not by any 
means what it now is. I had been riding all day, 
and was hot, tired and dusty. The driver had just 
pointed out a clump of trees with the white walls 
of a house glittering through them as the end of my 
wanderings, when my ears were attracted by the 
music of children’s voices, and, looking out, my 
eyes took in this picture : Just at the entrance of 
an avenue of elm trees, standing in the glorious 
golden sunset, was a charming group of children 
of various sizes and ages, from the bright boy of 
seventeen to the fair-haired baby in its nurse’s arms. 
They were clustering about the stately figure of a 
venerable man whose uncovered head allowed the 


WOODLA WN. 


23 


breeze to play at hide-and-seek with his long white 
locks. A sunbeam rested upon him, crowning him 
as with a halo far more radiant than any of earth’s 
coronets, though set with earth’s brightest jewels. 
The children raised to him their smiling faces, bright 
with youth, health and happiness. There was a 
pause in the babel of voices and laughter as the 
old gentleman made a funnel of his two hands 
and uttered through the aperture this sentence, the 
first part of which, in spite of an immense display 
of effort, was spoken in a very low tone, and the 
last two words alone shouted with the full vol- 
ume of his voice : 

“ If these boys don’t learn their lessons, must I 
whip them?” 

Breathlessly the audience listens, with bent heads 
and sparkling eyes, and away off in the recesses of 
the woods and hills comes a stern voice repeating 
three times and growing fainter with each repetition : 

“ Whip them ! whip them ! whip th — ” 

“ If these girls don’t learn their lessons, must I 
whip them ?” is the next question propounded, and 
the same mysterious voice reiterates with no loss 
of determination, 

“ Whip them ! whip them ! whip th — ” 

Then, in obedience to that great disciplinarian 
Mr. Echo, who has ordered their chastisement, the 
old gentleman drops his hands and dashes into the 
midst of the screaming, laughing throng, and, seiz- 


24 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


ing one after another, then and there inflicts sum- 
mary chastisement, while the mysterious voice sends 
back weird, mocking laughter and shouts which seem 
carried from one point to another till the woods and 
hills re-echo with gleeful sounds. 

This group, containing many of the dramatis per- 
sona '■ of my story, is standing, as I before said, at the 
entrance of an avenue of elm trees whose branches, 
meeting, form an archway over the carriage-road. 
This avenue comes to an abrupt termination at a 
great gate with enormous side-posts giving an idea 
of solidity and firmness. The gate opens very wide 
and seems to send a hospitable invitation to outsiders 
to come in and be blessed. Within the enclosure the 
carriage-road divides, and the two branches, running 
in opposite directions through an apple-orchard, form 
a wide circle, meeting at the great entrance of an old- 
fashioned but very beautiful mansion whose stuccoed 
walls glitter in the evening sun like a mountain of 
new-fallen snow. 

Extending from the front of the house to the gate 
and dividing the orchard in two is a smooth-shaven 
lawn whose green surface is broken on either side 
by broad flower-borders in which no flower is 
allowed except the rose, but where an infinite va- 
riety of this prolific family finds its place. In the 
full glory of their rich bloom, these roses scatter 
their many-hued leaves in lavish profusion and load 
the air with their delicious perfume. With the ex- 


WOODLAWN : 


25 


ception of this avenue of roses and a few climbers 
on arbor and trellis, there are no flowers at the front 
of the house, but the grass is most luxuriant. Pass- 
ing around the house to the west, one is entranced by 
the river, at the distance of some two hundred yards. 
The ground slopes upward, culminating in a mound 
which forms the centre of this most beautiful gar- 
den, which must cover nearly three acres. It is 
enclosed by a hedge of purple lilacs, Mrs. Wallace’s 
especial pride, and it is hard to imagine anything 
more beautiful than this rich green-and-purple wall 
shutting in a garden which might have been mod- 
eled after the garden of Eden. 

But all this time have I been garrulously wander- 
ing on over familiar scenes about this beautiful old 
Virginia home, and I have left the group of chil- 
dren at the entrance to the avenue, while my car- 
riage lingers near. 

As Judge Wallace darted in and out among the 
group of children he caught sight of the carriage 
with my head out of the window ; instantly coming 
forward, he gave me a hearty welcome, excusing 
himself by saying laughingly, 

“Ah, Ellen — for I must drop formalities with 
your father’s child — you find the old man playing 
the boy. Don’t accuse me of second childhood, but 
lay it all to the rejuvenating effects of the moun- 
tain-air.” Then, turning to the children, he said, 
“ Make your best bows to Miss Ellen Maxwell, 


26 


UNDER THE PRUNINO-KNIFE. 


young folks, and run home. She is too tired to be 
made known in broken doses to such a multitude ; 
she may take her time at that. Scamper home, you 
rogues ! See who will get there first and tell the 
news.” 

Off flew the children, filling the air with their 
merry music, while the judge, taking a seat beside 
me, questioned, as we rode, of my journey with a 
kind courtesy which set me quite at ease with him. 

The children had already announced my arrival, 
and the portico was filled with a formidable group. 

“ Welcome home, my dear,” said the judge as he 
helped me from the carriage, while a stout lady with 
a basket on her arm came forward with a charming- 
ly welcoming face and was introduced as “ My wife.” 
She kissed my cheek and repeated “ Welcome home, 
my dear.” Then one after another was introduced ; 
but I grew bewildered — as you would do, my reader 
— with the number of introductions, all kindly gra- 
cious people, but people who have no place in my 
story. 

“And this is Eva,” said the judge, leading for- 
ward a blushing little rosebud of a girl who with 
an innocent confidingness which won me at once put 
up her mouth for a kiss. She was wonderfully like 
that vision of loveliness which had lured George 
Dalrvmple to ruin, but the fact brought no preju- 
dice to my spirit ; I was only charmed by the idea 
that I was to train the mind and the heart of the 


WOOD LA WN. 


27 


beautiful child, to make her all that under happier 
auspices her unfortunate mother might have been. 

“ Where is my little Lin?” said the judge, turn- 
ing about in the group. “ She did not go out to 
call the echo, and promised to be the first to wel- 
come Miss Maxwell. Where is the child?” 

No one knew, but Mrs. Wallace suggested with 
a laugh, 

“ Buried in a book somewhere.” 

“ Yes,” said the judge ; “ and when that is the 
case, you might burn the house down and singe off 
the end of her nose without much disturbing her.” 

“ Humph !” uttered some one behind me, so omi- 
nously disapproving that I turned to see whence the 
voice came. 

“ Let me introduce my cousin, Miss Betsey Briggs,” 
said Mrs. Wallace; and my eye took in a vision of 
a female in attire too youthful for the years imprint- 
ed upon her visage. 

Miss Betsey was all ends and furbelows, curls and 
crimps, conveying a sort of impression of being 
out in a high wind. I afterward learned that she 
was a distant relative of Mrs. Wallace and a pen- 
sioner upon the bounty of the house, the single 
drop of blood making large claims when backed 
by need. She simpered with her hand before her 
lips, as if suppressing a laugh, as she said, 

“ You will find Miss Lin in the library, book in 
hand, and no doubt with holes in her stockings. 


28 


UNDER THE PRUNINQ-KNIFE. 


This child is my dear cousin’s weakness, as you will 
find, Miss Maxwell.” 

There was something very disagreeable about Miss 
Betsey’s manner, and I did not wonder at the slight 
contraction of the judge’s brow as he led the way, 
saying, 

“Well, let us hunt up the culprit in her usual 
haunts.” 

He led the way to the farther end of the hall, 
where a door opened into a cool green library whose 
walls were covered with books of solid worth. The 
bright Venetians seemed to wave a welcome as they 
were moved by the light breeze, letting in from the 
rosy setting sun starts and flashes of light which 
were like beaming smiles on the face of the home- 
like apartment. A window filled a recess, at the 
front of which was a large arm-chair covered with 
green morocco. This was pushed close against the 
window, the Venetians of which were raised, and 
the last rays of the departing god of day rested 
upon the bent head of a little girl whose limbs 
were folded up out of sight as she reclined with 
ungraceful freedom in the ample dimensions of the 
chair. She held in her hand a book, over which 
she bent; her back was toward us, and only the 
top of a very tangled head was visible. Our en- 
trance did not in the least disturb her until Eva 
ran forward and, seizing the book, brought the stu- 
dent back to the realities of every-day life. Spring- 


WOODLA WN. 


29 


ing to her feet, she looked around in dire confusion, 
while all joined in an irrepressible laugh at her ap- 
pearance. 

“ This is the way you meet Miss Maxwell, is it ?” 
laughed Eva. 

“ I — I am sorry. I forgot,” stammered the little 
girl, catching her grandpapa’s hand and nestling to 
his side as a shipwrecked man would seize a spar in 
his way. 

I am afraid the good judge was open to the charge 
of undue tenderness for this little girl ; it was dis- 
closed in every tone of his voice when he spoke of 
or to her. As she stood thus with bowed head, only 
a corner of a red cheek visible, awkward, embar- 
rassed, the contrast with the pretty, graceful Eva 
was painfully striking; and, with that proneness 
to judge by first appearances, I found myself rap- 
idly comparing and contrasting, turning to the beau- 
tiful Eva with joy at the prospect of having her 
always near me, and fears, on the other hand, pos- 
sessing me that the little Lin was to be the alloy in 
the cup of my satisfaction. 

“ Never mind, darling,” said grandpa; “Miss 
Maxwell will excuse you, I know. Look up and 
let her see if you are not like your Dalrymple 
grandfather.” 

Whether even this encouragement would have 
imparted the requisite confidence I do not know, 
but, putting his hand under the girl’s chin, Judge 


30 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Wallace lifted the drooping head, and I was almost 
startled by the vivid likeness to the people from 
whom she had sprung, the great gray eyes and the 
strongly-marked features — too strong for comeliness 
in one of her tender years. I exclaimed, 

“ Oh, so like your father and your grandfather !” 

“Dalrymple outside and in,” said the judge as 
he stooped to kiss into peace the troubled look on 
the little upturned face. “ They ought to have for 
their standard a stalwart oak, and for their motto, 
‘ Staunch to the core/ This child receives in her 
nature a rich inheritance from her fathers; I am 
much mistaken if she ever shrinks back from the 
path of right.” 

I looked at the two sisters standing thus. Eva, 
inattentive to this last scene, was merrily laughing 
at some whispered joke of Tom Hastings. “ An apt 
representation of sunshine and shade,” I thought. 

This was my introduction to the two young lives 
with which my own has ever since been entwined. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE SISTERS. 

A BOUT one hundred yards from the handsome 
dwelling-house of Woodlawn there was an 
old-fashioned, long, low, rambling house which 
went by the name of “the old house.” It had 
been the home of the last generation, as Judge 
Wallace himself had built the “ great house” to 
meet the greater wants of his large household. 
This cottage had received additions and remodel- 
ings until, if it had ever possessed an order of 
architecture, it was entirely lost. On one side it 
opened upon the great garden and reaped all the 
benefit to be derived from the mound of flowers. 
Old forest-trees surrounded the other three sides 
with their leafy foliage, making about it a sort of 
perpetual twilight. The entrance was through a 
small rustic porch with a bench at each end. This 
porch served as a trellis for a Virginia creeper, 
which by means of the support thus afforded clam- 
bered to the house itself. It must have taken root 
many years ago, as it not only made a perfect bower 
of the porch, but covered the entire side of the house, 
embracing various window-frames in its progress, 

31 


32 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


and never resting until it hung its rich fringe of 
bloom about the tops of the chimneys, where at 
the bidding of every passing breeze it waved in 
gratified ambition. 

The use to which this cottage was devoted in the 
household economy was as a sort of honorable re- 
treat for the overflowings of the great house. It 
was also named by the young men “ Liberty Hall,” 
from the fact that they there enjoyed a larger license 
in the matter of slippers, lounging and cigars than 
was admissible in the more dignified mansion. 

I was charmed to find that three rooms — a school- 
room and two chambers — in this edifice had been 
set apart for myself and my pupils. I felt in my 
independent position, with my delightful rooms and 
my charges entirely under my control, quite as if I 
had set up a home of my own. It was some days 
before I shook myself well into my nest ; this done, 
I set to work to study the characters of my pupils 
with a sincere desire to reward the trust so gener- 
ously reposed in me by bringing from the plastic 
materials at my hand the best results possible. My 
heart was in my work, 

“And the heart giveth grace unto every art.” 

I knew too well that nothing could be accom- 
plished alone, so daily I strengthened hand and 
heart at the great storehouse where human nature 
is privileged to resort. 


THE SISTERS. 


33 


It is not my purpose to dwell at any length upon 
the childhood days of my interesting pupils, as the 
story I am telling centres about their later life, but, 
for the proper understanding of the characters they 
developed, I deem it necessary to make my readers 
acquainted with the natural elements composing 
these characters. 

Eva’s remarkable personal attractions were sup- 
plemented by qualities of mind completely in uni- 
son ; Nature, in her most lavish mood, seemed 
indeed to have moulded her of every creature’s best. 
She had a face fair as the flowers of the Cape jes- 
samine, set in a framework of fleecy, shining locks 
which had caught and imprisoned a sunbeam in 
their meshes, eyes as blue as the heavens, soft and 
melting at one moment and sparkling with merri- 
ment the next ; the whitest neck, arms and hands, 
beautifully dimpled and models in form. She was 
small for her age. There had been no dispropor- 
tioned growth, no long, awkward, undeveloped 
limbs ; she grew evenly and gracefully from baby- 
hood to womanhood with perfect smoothness. Add- 
ed to this, she possessed that subtle power — innate 
in some favored few — of attracting others, and the 
tact which always suggests the right word in the 
right place. The malapropos remark which often 
proceeds from a lack of self-confidence and appre- 
ciation was never chargeable to her ; the knowledge 
of what to say and when to say it was one of her rare 
3 


34 


UNDER THE PR UN1NG-KNIFE. 


endowments. She had all of the attractions of 
girlish diffidence without its reality. Her delicate 
complexion, deepening and fading with every change 
of expression, gave one the impression of great sensi- 
tiveness and modesty, when, in truth, she was as 
self-possessed as a woman of the world. The most 
serene consciousness of her own attractions pervaded 
Eva’s whole being, accompanied by a self-love which 
secured their development to the utmost. Whilst 
her companions, in the enjoyment of country free- 
dom, required constant admonitions in the matter 
of bonnets and gloves, Eva was never at fault : her 
beautiful hands would emerge from their warm 
gloves unkissed by the tanning sun, and her fair 
face would look through the folds of a thick veil 
blanched and softened by the protection, and all this 
without any thought being given to it. It was as 
natural to her to take care of her beauty as it was 
for her to be beautiful ; the outside appearance was 
everything to her. 

Now, for completing the picture, truth compels me 
to veil a little of its brightness. Except for the pur- 
pose of enhancing her natural attractions, Eva had no 
desire for accomplishments or for cultivation. Her 
voice was like a bird’s, in laughter or song striking 
true notes of music. For drawing she had a talent 
which, had there been an earnest nature behind it, 
might have developed the gifted artist. No wonder 
my heart rejoiced at such a foundation for my work. 


THE SISTERS. 


35 


A few weeks sufficed to impress the lesson learned 
long before — that the shining pebble may glitter 
more brightly than the precious ore. With that 
serene self-approbation of which I have spoken, 
Eva believed superfluous any unnecessary exertion 
in perfecting her accomplishments. Hers was a 
luxurious nature content to rest its laurels upon 
personal endowments ; her energies, ample for the 
pursuit of enjoyment, fainted before the exertion 
necessary for improvement of her gifts. For the 
first few weeks I was electrified by her marvelous 
aptness; then came the end. The novelty gone, 
exertion became drudgery, and Eva dropped into 
pretty, graceful idleness, answering my remon- 
strances with her characteristic egotism : 

“ It is too much trouble. And what use can there 
be in it ? I can already sing and play well enough 
to please in society ; that is all it is for. This ever- 
lasting bother is quite unnecessary; no one listens 
to scientific music.” 

Eva’s fingers would move lazily over the keys, 
fashioning an airy little melody, or in the intervals 
of the conversation she would warble a snatch from 
a song as a commentary on her words. 

After one of these contests I thought it best to 
appeal to Mrs. Wallace ; the judge was also called 
into the consultation. I represented my difficulty 
as mildly as possible. I could not get the children 
to practice or to pay the attention to my directions 


36 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


I felt to be necessary. Eva was summoned, quite 
sharply reproved and ordered to play the music 
given to her. She did so. To the ears of Judge 
and Mrs. Wallace, who knew nothing of music, 
she played as well as a professional, while to mine 
she made only musical jargon without sense. 

“ She has certainly improved,” said the judge. 

“ Does you infinite credit,” remarked Mrs. Wal- 
lace. 

“ Plays better than Linda will do should she 
practice a thousand years,” snapped Miss Betsey 
Briggs, who had come in most inopportunely, and 
who never missed an opportunity to contrast the 
two sisters to Linda’s disadvantage. 

“But,” I remonstrated, “the point I complain 
of is that she does not count time nor read her 
notes.” 

“ Eva, my dear,” said grandpapa, with a stern- 
ness not skin-deep, “ you must count time and read 
your notes. I expect you to obey Miss Maxwell 
implicitly.” 

“ Yes, my love,” echoed grandmamma ; “ I hope 
Miss Maxwell will insist upon perfect obedience. 
— And please, Miss Ellen, let us know if there is 
any further trouble.” 

The conclave then adjourned, leaving me with my 
refractory pupil, who looked at me archly for a mo- 
ment, and then, breaking into an irresistible laugh, 
threw her arms around me and said, 


THE SISTERS. 


37 


“ Oh, you are so angry ! and I am sorry, but you 
look so funny !” 

“ You are very rude, Eva,” I said, disengaging 
myself from her and feeling utterly baffled and dis- 
comfited. 

“ Oh, Miss Ellen, forgive me,” she exclaimed, try- 
ing to control her laughter. “ It was really too much 
— too droll! Grandpapa and grandmamma don’t 
know a thing about music, and I knew if I played 
my very best they would think it was all right.” 

“You acknowledge your duplicity, then?” said 
I, indignantly. 

“ Please, now, dear Miss Ellen, don’t be cross and 
call my joke by such ugly names, and really I will 
be a good girl. But, as to reading those black- 
headed things, I cannot do it, and ‘ one, two, three,’ 
‘ one, two, three,’ just puts me in a passion. I shall 
do very well without so much trouble; it is all 
right for Lin, who has no talent for music.” 

I was forced to see that my eldest pupil was per- 
fectly superficial, and to abandon any bright hope 
of ever making her anything else. 

These were grave faults enough, but I shall hint 
another. Have you never met with a person who had 
as great a horror of falsehood as of theft or murder, 
yet in whose make-up there was an undercurrent of 
untruthfulness which undermined the whole charac- 
ter ? It developed itself in the soft word of flattery, 
asserting its presence in the hesitating word of half- 


38 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


praise — more fatal, often, to the absent than the open 
anathema. And oh the power in such a character 
of the sweet, winning voice, the seductive manner 
and the beautiful face, like the delicate flower whose 
fragrant leaves conceal the insect with poisonous 
sting lurking beneath, ready to inflame whatever 
it touches ! 

Now I turn to my second pupil. The verdict 
of the world was very much what mine had been. 
What freak of Nature had sent out from one foun- 
tain such diverse streams ? It was as if the natures 
of the parents, diametrically opposite and alien in 
blood, refused to mingle in their offspring, the one 
child absorbing not only the wonderful beauty of 
the mother, but her characteristics, while the other 
was, as Judge Wallace expressed it, “all Dalrymple 
within and without, God bless her !” Shy, pain- 
fully self-depreciative and shrinking from observa- 
tion, the latter was misunderstood and underrated 
except by the few who saw the sweet kernel beneath 
the unattractive shell. This was inevitable; such 
natures must always suffer by such contrasts as those 
to which Linda was subjected. While Eva laughed 
and chatted at her ease, not a whit more than was 
pretty and proper, poor Lin, feeling how impossi- 
ble it was for her to do the like and conscious of 
dullness so near the glitter, would creep off to a 
corner, or perhaps, making a spasmodic effort at 
ease and gayety, would end with some maladroit 


THE SISTERS. 


39 


remark, the child of her embarrassment, over which 
she would sensitively brood, then would creep away 
and be seen no more. 

Far from possessing the beauty of her sister, 
Linda was generally pronounced just the opposite ; 
yet in the face of the child there were elements in 
which the physiognomist would have found pleas- 
ure. At first glance one marked only the irregu- 
larity of the features, the sallow complexion, the 
awkward length of limb ; another and deeper glance 
disclosed a wonderful degree of undeveloped strength 
in the face and a foreshadowing of truth and candor 
in the broad open brow which proved sure indica- 
tions of the character afterward developed. The 
redeeming feature of her face was her eyes. Talk 
of your sparkling black eye, the liquid blue, the 
languishing brown ! The finest eye, after all, is 
the gray, and the finest gray eyes I ever saw were 
set in Linda Dalrymple’s head. They were eyes 
which instantly expressed every change of feeling — 
earnest, intense, obedient to the most transient feel- 
ing of their owner. The rest of the face was not 
pretty, not even handsome, but those eyes redeemed 
it from homeliness. 

After the eyes, her hair was perhaps Linda’s 
most expressive feature. When she was reading or 
thinking she had a way of running her fingers 
through it until it resembled a lion’s mane more 
. than anything else. As this dishevelment was in 


40 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


exact proportion to its length, Miss Betsey may be 
excused, perhaps, for one day seizing the scissors 
and shearing the obnoxious fleece, to which operation 
Lin did not submit without a struggle and a burst 
of passion. Not that she cared for the hair, but she 
resented Miss Betsey’s assumption of authority and 
recognized the reproof — more than implied — in the 
act ; and blame did cut so cruelly into the little girl’s 
sensitive nature ! But Samson’s locks of strength 
grew after they were shorn, and so have many an- 
other’s ; so, certainly, did Linda Dairy mple’s, and 
were again dangerously standing up. Miss Betsey 
waved her scissors. I pleaded for the locks. Tom 
Hastings, the wit of the family, reported that for 
three nights he heard me mournfully singing under 
Miss Betsey’s window, 

“ Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough.” 

But before my cause was gained I had to engage a 
special pleader in the person of “ grandpa,” and 
I fear Miss Betsey never again counted me in the 
list of her favorites. With sweeping eloquence she 
classed me with Judge Wallace and Harry, who 
“ Never see a fault in that child !” 

“ Fault ” ! That was a mistake ; there were 
plenty of faults — enough to make me often feel 
discouraged in my work. But in battling with 
them I found so much to reward effort that I kept 


THE SISTERS. 


41 


good heart. She was honest to the heart’s core. 
I have seen her sensitive organization cower and 
shrink from the necessity of confession of sins of 
omission and commission, but I never saw it fail. 
One secret of her troubles was her dreamy absent- 
mindedness, an absorption in whatever interested 
her which often mad her forget important duties, 
and which was greatly to be deprecated. 

Harry Wallace illustrated this peculiarity of 
Lin’s by an amusing incident of her early days, 
which I give for what it is worth. When reading 
was yet in its primitive stage with Linda, she was 
one day summoned to the parlor to bid farewell to 
a little companion who was leaving Richmond for 
a distant home. Unfortunately, Linda on her way 
picked up a Watts’s Child’s Catechism , opened it and 
became absorbed in its contents. A second messen- 
ger was despatched for her, and with somnambulistic 
tread she came into the room where the family were 
assembled about the little stranger. Her eyes fixed 
upon the book, she read aloud with the greatest 
solemnity, 

u i Q. Can-you-tell-me-child-who-made-you ? A. 
The—’” 

“ Linda,” said Mrs. Wallace as the absorbed child 
stumbled against that lady, “ Helen has come to say 
‘ Good-bye ’ to you.” 

Without taking her eyes off the book, Lin ex- 
tended her hand as she continued to read aloud : 


42 


UNDER THE PRUNING-ICNIFE. 


“ ( — Great-God- who-made-heaven-and-earth. Q. 
And — ’ ” 

“ Linda Dalrymple !” 

It was Miss Betsey’s voice this time, and, as it 
always proved a painful disturber of Lin’s dreams, 
she shook Helen’s hand up and down like a pump- 
handle, saying, without enthusiasm, 

“ Good-bye, Helen. — ‘ What - does - God - do - for- 
you? A. He-keeps-me-from-harm — ’” 

Not from the harm of Miss Betsey’s hasty hand, 
which snatched away the book ; and Lin awoke to 
find herself disgraced in the presence of the assem- 
bled household. 

I have never seen such avidity for books. Any- 
thing to feed the hunger and thirst. Story-books 
first; but if they were not convenient, history or 
poetry would do, and one day I surprised her with 
Hervey’s Meditations among the Tombs. She was 
more frequently delinquent at her lessons than Eva 
because of her dreaminess, but, once arouse her 
interest, she was insatiable. Often the hour for 
dismissal would come in the midst of some expla- 
nation. Off would fly Eva, eager to claim her 
freedom, but Lin never ; those great gray eyes would 
nail me to my chair and her “ Miss Maxwell, please 
tell me the rest,” was not to be resisted until she 
was satisfied. 

But it was a long time before I felt I had ad- 
vanced a step in bringing Lin to a sense of those 


THE SISTERS. 


43 


practical duties so important in the life of a woman. 
I think there was naturally a depression where her 
bump of order was due, while Eva’s was almost too 
fully developed ; Eva seemed to have received her 
own share and Lin’s also. I have before me a 
package of papers yellow with age, scribbled over 
with the quaint characters of a childish handwrit- 
ing ; I smile as I recall it — the fruit of a sugges- 
tion to Lin that she should keep a diary. The 
novelty of the idea seized her fancy. I read : 

“ August 21 , — I am twelve years old to-day, and 
I am going to keep a Dairy. I will begin with 
some good resolutions I made this morning : 

“ 1. I will think what I am about. 

“ 2. I will darn my stockings and mend my 
clothes whenever they need it. 

“3. I will not leave my things lying round. 

“ 4. I will try and not get angry when Cousin 
Betsey scolds me. 

“ 5. I will be glad when Eva gets praised and 
I get blamed. 

“6. I will not get angry with Eva, because I 
must love her. She is all the sister I have, and 
no father nor mother nor brother, though Harry 
is just like one. 

“ 7. I will not read so many story-books, but 
more serious ones, to improve my mind. 

“ 8. \ will try to do everything that is right, no 
matter how hard and disagreeable and stupid it is, 


44 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


because God knows all our trials and troubles, and 
loves us when we do such things. 

“ August 8 %. — I really do not see much use in 
good resolutions. I never can keep them ; it is 
always the same. I wrote down my resolutions 
yesterday because I thought that would make me 
remember. I wrote them before breakfast; and 
when the bell rang, I hurried off to the house, and 
had to go back because Miss Maxwell called me 
to put my things away. I felt very badly at hav- 
ing broken my resolutions so soon. I could have 
cried if it had not been on my birthday, but then I 
would have cried all the year around, and so I did 
not. 

“ I was late at breakfast, but nobody scolded, be- 
cause it was my birthday, and my plate was piled 
up with presents. Oh, it was too nice ! Grandpa 
gave me The Lady of the Lake , and grandma a 
workbox with scissors and needles and thread ; and 
Harry gave me a ring, and Eva a sash, and Miss 
Maxwell a pretty book. I certainly was happy to 
see how many friends I have. If I could only be 
a better girl ! Birthdays certainly are pleasant. I 
felt as if could never be angry again, but I was. 
Eva was very provoking to me, laughed at me, and 
I was as angry as I could be, and forgot all about 
her present till she said, 

“ 1 You ungrateful thing ! I never will give you 
anything again if you have a thousand birthdays.’ 


THE SISTERS. 


45 


“ Oh, I wish she would not, because I do not be- 
lieve I will ever help getting mad with her, and it 
makes it so dreadful to be told you are ungrateful. 
I just had to go away from her quick then to keep 
from saying anything else and being more un- 
grateful. 

“ Then I thought I would begin my history-read- 
ing, but I took a look at the story-book Miss Max- 
well gave me, and I forgot all about everything till 
dinner-time ; and then it made me very miserable 
to think how many of my resolutions I had broken 
already. I went to Miss Maxwell and told her 
about my discouragements ; she always comforts 
me in my sorrows. She just kissed me and smiled, 
and said, 

“ ‘Ah, little Lin, little Lin ! You are just learn- 
ing one of life’s lessons. All the road is resolving 
and failing, a picking ourselves up and going on 
again, and so on to the end.’ 

“ If she says so, I suppose it is true, and I must 
pick myself up and go on again ; but it is hard to 
believe that Mr. Bunyan and the Shepherd of Salis- 
bury Plain and all the good people in the Bible had 
as hard a time as I do.” 

I think in my whole long life I never saw two 
natures more absolutely antagonistic than were the 
natures of these sisters. They were diametrically 
opposed to each other. Eva was beautiful, and 
knew it ; the knowledge of the fact made her su- 


46 UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 

premely happy. Linda was wanting in beauty and 
exaggerated her lack of personal attractions, and, I 
am afraid, often made herself supremely wretched. 
Eva had a calm self-satisfaction with herself in 
every particular which was the very opposite to 
her sister’s impulsive, nervous self-torture, which 
made her constantly draw a contrast unfavorable 
to herself between herself and others. I think she 
always had an inward consciousness that there were 
compensations in her being which others knew not 
of ; she felt as if she wore some impenetrable dis- 
guise which penned her better nature in and hid it 
from the common gaze. Eva was universally pro- 
nounced “ so sweet-tempered,” while poor Lin suf- 
fered from gusts of passion which shook her life 
and made her unhappy, and which left Eva — who 
generally provoked them — as calm and self-satis- 
fied as the white moon. Yet in my hands, with 
Judge Wallace, Mrs. Wallace and Harry, there 
could not possibly be a child more easily controlled 
than Linda ; she felt we loved her, and where love 
ruled she was a lamb. I think it safe to affirm 
that Judge Wallace did not even guess that his 
little pet was a tornado at times. 

Long and diligently I studied my pupils, and as 
the study progressed the strongest affections of my 
heart centred about the child whose great pent-up 
nature, if properly developed, promised such rare 
strength and grandeur. I used to wonder why the 


THE SISTEES. 


47 


great All-Father who determines the thickness of 
the clothing necessary to enable the wild beast of 
the North to withstand the cold of the polar regions, 
who guides the little bird away from the harsh 
breath of the winter storm, who preserves the won- 
derful harmony of nature in the spheres, should have 
placed these two dispositions where the finer nature 
was rasped and tortured by the contact. But as 
time went on and I saw self-control avert the pas- 
sionate outburst, as I saw unselfish conscientiousness 
growing, I knew that as the storm has for its mis- 
sion the strengthening of the roots of the strong 
trees, so there was some appointed work in life the 
child was to do for which her nature was to be pu- 
rified and strengthened ; and when my door would 
open hastily and Linda rush in as if pursued by a 
phantom she feared, then seat herself quietly by my 
side, but with panting chest and flashing eyes, I 
learned to know that the hunted animal was flying 
to a place of safety from the weapons of death. 

One day, however, the tempest burst as Lin 
buried her face in my lap. Sobs shook her frame, 
and cries of anguish which alarmed me. A word of 
sympathy and comfort, and the torrent of words 
flowed : 

“ I know I am dreadfully wicked, and I cannot 
Help it. No one thinks that Eva does anything to 
me, and maybe she don’t and it is all my dreadful 
temper. Every one says she is sweet-tempered and 


48 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNTFE. 


gentle, and maybe she is, but I cannot help getting 
angry with her. She always seems right, and I 
always seem wrong. Oh. Maxy, will it ever come 
straight ?** 

I soothed and petted her, and, like the tired 
child she was, she sobbed herself to sleep on my 
pillow ; then I opened the door which led into the 
girls* room and went in, softly closing the door 
after me. Heaven could scarcely present a more 
perfect vision of peace than that which reigned 
around the pretty little chamber. Everything was 
in the most perfect order. The vine-bowered win- 
dows were opened to admit the soft breeze, and at 
one of them sat Eva as the presiding genius of the 
place, her soft hair gently waving about her angelic 
face, her pretty hands moving nimbly as she deftly 
twined flower after flower — of which her lap was 
full — into the tasteful bouquet. 

“ Is not this beautiful ?** she said, smiling, as I 
entered, and holding up her work. 

I seated myself at her side, feeling as embarrassed 
as if I had been overtaken in a fault; I saw no 
room for accusation. She relieved my dilemma by 
saying, as she shook her head pensively, 

“ Poor Lin ! I suppose she has been complaining 
of me and you have come to know the truth.** 

“ Not at all,** I said ; “ Lin has made no accusa- 
tion against you. Had she done so, I should have 
to look no farther for the truth.** 


THE SISTERS. 


49 


Eva turned her innocent blue eyes on my face 
with a look of unfeigned surprise as she an- 
swered, 

“ Do you mean that I would not tell the truth, 
Miss Maxwell ?” 

“ No, but Linda assuredly would,” I answered. 

“ Of what has she accused me ?” 

“ You, of nothing,” I said — “ herself, of much.” 

Eva rocked herself contentedly as she added a 
white rosebud to her bouquet, saying, at the same 
time, 

“ I am glad of it. I certainly have done nothing 
to make her angry ; her temper is a great trouble 
to herself and to every one else.” 

“ What was the matter ?” I asked. 

“Oh, nothing, as usual,” sighed Eva. “You 
know I cannot live in disorder ; and when I came 
in I found Lin's bureau emptied and her clothes 
scattered over the floor- — ‘ fixing/ she said. I 
bore it patiently till she got hold of a book, and 
I knew that was the end of it, so I remonstrated ; 
and when that did no good, I got up and put her 
things away myself.” 

“ Very kind !” I said. “ Did she wish you to do 
it ?” 

“ Oh no ; that was the trouble. She threw away 
the book and insisted I should not touch her things, 
she would put them away herself.” 

“ Ah ! I see. And you persisted ?” I inquired. 

4 


50 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Yes, because I knew it would never be done if 
I did not. So she ran out of the room in a rage, 
while I finished her work — only see how beautifully 
the clothes are arranged — and I sprinkled them 
with rose-leaves. I knew she was telling you, but 
of course, if she took all the blame — as she ought 
to have done — it is all right.” 

Eva had risen as she spoke, holding up her mus- 
lin apron full of flowers, and, opening one after 
another of the bureau-drawers, displayed them in 
perfect order with the dainty rose-leaves over 
them. 

What was I to do ? Where was the blame ? As 
Lin said, Eva always made her cause seem right, 
and yet I knew all was in seeming. I said, 

“ You should have let her fix her own things ; 
she had just left me very full of the idea of fixing 
and keeping her clothing in perfect order.” 

“ She makes that resolution, to my certain knowl- 
edge, about once a week, and breaks it as often,” 
said Eva, smiling sadly, “ and I cannot live in dis- 
order.” 

So the matter ended, and was succeeded by so 
many more of the same sort that I was tempted to 
give up in despair. But my interest in Linda and 
my affection for her were too great for me to give her 
up ; the child had twined herself about my heart in 
a way for which I could not account. I felt as if 
I was God-appointed to watch her life that she 


THE SISTERS. 


51 


might not be swept away from her moorings by an 
influence I distinctly recognized as baneful. 

I would not for an instant have my readers im- 
agine that the life of the two sisters was all storm ; 
by no means. Linda in her self-accusation often 
unduly submitted to the influence of her sister, 
allowing herself to be sent hither and thither by 
her, bowing to her superiority as lowlily as a prin- 
cess could have wished ; but ever and anon a tem- 
pest would come, and Lin and I knew where lay the 
blame. 

My effort to solve the difficult question sent me 
one day to Judge Wallace’s study, where I sur- 
prised him by asking, 

“ Did you ever try, my dear sir, to mix fire and 
water ?” 

♦ • • • 

“ Rather a hazardous experiment,” said the judge, 
courteously leading me to a chair beside his own 
and smilingly waiting an explanation. 

“ Yet,” I said, sententiously, “ both are excellent 
elements apart.” He assented in silence. “Well 
I am afraid we are trying this experiment I feel 
sure that I have these two elements in my two pu- 
pils. Eva is the beautiful cold water ; Linda, the 
warm, glowing, sparkling, and often fierce, fire. 
If kept apart, these two will do well ; if mingled, 
I fear they will destroy each other.” 

A look of grave concern took possession of the 
judge’s face as he exclaimed, 


52 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE 


“ Eva and Linda ! I cannot understand.” 

I explained fully, and did not conceal the fact that 
I considered Linda’s disposition the finer of the two, 
that the sisters were antagonistic, that it was not the 
least baneful result of George Dalrymple’s unfortu- 
nate marriage that the alien nature which had refused 
to fuse with his own had reproduced the same repul- 
sion in the persons of his children. I told Judge 
Wallace that at this stage in their lives I especially 
feared the result upon the high-strung, sensitive 
nature of the younger sister. It was true that with 
judicious training the very trial might be the means 
of gaining for Linda self-control over what her most 
partial friends must recognize as a troublesome fire 
in the blood ; yet in the seasons of repentance which 
followed, in the desire to atone for her faults, the 
impulse led her too far: she not only added immeas- 
urably to Eva’s unwarrantable self-satisfaction, but 
humiliated herself and ran the risk of losing her 
self-respect, and with it the finest ingredients of her 
nature. 

Judge Wallace listened to me with the gravest 
concern. These children he regarded as a sacred 
bequest, and their interests were paramount. He 
had been vaguely conscious of something wrong, 
and so had provided for them a special providence 
in the person of their governess ; and now to be told 
that there was a mysterious influence to battle 
against filled him with alarm, if not with dismay. 


THE SISTERS. 


53 


In the silence which followed my explanation he 
continued to regard me with an expression in which 
these feelings were easily discerned. 

“ My dear sir,” I said, laying my hand on his 
arm, “ don’t take the matter too seriously.” 

“ f Too seriously , !” he ejaculated, excitedly, as 
he rose and paced the floor. “ That is impossible. 
Will the dire results of that French marriage never 
end ? It has laid two noble hearts in the grave, 
and now you tell me the nature of that woman lives 
in these children.” 

“ Not in these children ,” I said, “ in only one of 
them. Linda has not a taint ; I only fear its exist- 
ence in Eva. But consider, judge, the plastic nature 
of a child. If that poor woman had had bestowed 
upon her childhood a tithe of the care which you have 
provided for these little girls, the nature which has 
been so fatal to the Dalrymples might have de- 
veloped very differently.” 

“ I cannot believe it, Ellen. It may be prejudice, 
but so dearly do I love the child, and so bitterly do 
I deprecate the idea of her inheriting the nature of 
that woman, that with my own hands I would open 
her veins and let the mother’s blood run out if I 
could with it eradicate her nature.” 

I could not for my life help smiling at the idea 
of the soft-hearted old judge lending himself to such 
a bloody experiment, but I only replied, 

u I did not mean to intimate anything very ex- 


54 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


travagant, my dear sir, but only to suggest that at 
this critical period of their lives the girls would be 
better apart.” 

“ ‘ Apart ’ ? Why, Miss Maxwell, they are sis- 
ters ! I never heard of a case where it was better to 
bring up sisters apart ; they lose the sweetest influ- 
ence of their lives.” 

I represented to the judge that those with whom 
he had been acquainted were made of different stuff 
from these anomalous sisters under discussion ; that 
Linda’s nature wanted repose — a repose which was 
not possible while she was dominated by Eva’s at- 
tractions and self-esteem. She wanted to be more 
a centre of affection, and it was almost as necessary 
for Eva to be away from home for opposite reasons 
— where she would find others as beautiful as her- 
self, where she would not be so much the object of 
flattery and attention as she was fast becoming. I 
advised that she should be sent for a few years to a 
good boarding-school where her really rare talents 
would be cultivated, and where her little vanities 
and aesthetic tastes could be made subservient to 
more solid requirements. 

Our conversation was a long one ; and when we 
parted, Judge Wallace promised that he would take 
the matter into deep consideration, and if not of my 
opinion after consulting with Mrs. Wallace he might 
be able to present such a modification of my plans 
as would satisfy all parties. 


CHAPTER IV. 

CHILD’S PLAY. 

I T was the custom of Judge and Mrs. Wallace in 
these summer Sittings to their mountain-home 
to gather with them as many as possible of their 
descendants — children and grandchildren — now a 
goodly host, that the season of vacation might also 
be one of domestic enjoyment and a renewal of asso- 
ciations which are so powerful in keeping alive the 
home affections. In this way sister and brother 
retained their hold upon each other ; their children 
grew up like members of the same family instead 
of drifting apart with no common interests, as is too 
often the case. Thus the goodly sons and the fair 
daughters belted about with growing infancy gath- 
ered each summer at the old homestead, and the 
parents taught the children their own old plays on 
the lawn and in the groves, making their very pas- 
times a thing of inheritance. 

The present patriarchs of the flock having early 
begun life together, their family presented the strange 
anomaly of children and grandchildren of the same 
age. Thus, Lyle Wallace and Tom Hastings, the 

55 


56 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


two grandsons, were the same age with Harry 
Wallace, their young uncle, a noble-looking boy of 
seventeen. They shared one another’s sports and 
studies, and, half in joke, half earnest, he went by 
the name of “ Little Uncle ” with all the children, 
including the two Dalrymples. 

As the pastimes of the Woodlawn children have 
a bearing upon my story, my kind reader must per- 
force stop with me and play with them for a little 
while. 

As I have said, these sports were inherited, and 
so, by the natural laws of growth and development, 
were brought to a larger degree of perfection than it 
has ever been my lot to see elsewhere. The plan of 
their plays was carried out from summer to summer 
in the midst of scenes replete with the associations not 
only of a lifetime, but of generations of lives. By 
the magic of their young imaginations the old gray 
limestone rocks were transformed into town-house 
and country-house, as was required, with the neces- 
sary adjuncts of kitchen, dairy and laundry. Here 
the young housekeepers took their first lessons in 
woman’s rights and woman’s privileges, and were 
as much in earnest as if in reality they occupied 
the responsible positions they assumed. There was 
an old tool-house with “ Farmers’ Bank ” in flam- 
ing characters over the door, and here Lyle Wal- 
lace, Jr., presided with great dignity and ability 
over the banking interests of the community. Hav- 


CHILD’S PLAY. 


57 


ing found an old blank check-book, they filled out 
the blanks to represent bank-notes, and with this 
bloated currency traffic was carried on to an unlim- 
ited extent. Fortunes were made and lost with 
incredible rapidity. Sometimes, for the interest 
of the thing, a millionaire, for the pleasure of mak- 
ing another fortune, would die, leave his fortune to 
his heir and begin life as some one else. 

Tom Hastings fell upon that plan once, making 
his will and leaving his fortune to Lin, telling her 
he was going to do so. In her elation she told of 
her great expectations to the rest. Tom made an- 
other will, and cut her off with a shilling for being 
so mercenary as to rejoice in his death because she 
would gain filthy lucre by it, and Lin was really 
afflicted both by her loss and by the cruel impu- 
tation. 

Tom was the head of a mercantile establishment 
and vended a variety of articles. There sugar was 
sold by the acorn-cupful and at starvation prices ; 
there rice and coffee were sold by the grain, and 
fruit which could be had from the trees for the 
plucking in the mad love of traffic commanded as- 
tounding prices. Fresh butter from Annie’s churn 
was displayed on grape-leaves, and Lin and Tom 
together one day manufactured some ice-cream which 
they lauded to the skies, and which Tom sold for 
fifty dollars a saucer, Woodlawn currency ; but upon 
tasting it Eva discovered that the salt had been put 


58 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNIFE. 


in the cream to make it freeze instead of in the ice, 
and the manufacturers were laughed at for their 
pains. Tom enjoyed the joke and laughed louder 
than the rest, but Lin first got angry and then crept 
off to hide herself and her mortification. 

But the pride of the Woodlawn children, after 
all, was the Woodlawn News , which was issued every 
fortnight, and of which Harry Wallace and Lin 
Dalrymple were joint-editors, Lin choosing a manly 
nom-de-plume , her own proper title being out of 
place for the duties of an editor, but her own 
proper person being too valuable an adjunct to be 
despised because of her sex. I peeped into the office 
one day when the paper was being made up, and it 
was equal to a visit to the theatre with stars on the 
boards. Harry sat at a desk, before him a great 
sheet of foolscap — which served instead of the 
printed sheet — writing most diligently, while Lin, 
at the same desk, had brought herself up to her 
partner’s level by means of a high three-legged 
stool from which her feet dangled ungracefully. 
With her expressive hair in the wildest confusion, 
she was “ composing” a poem which I afterward 
found adorning the “ Poet’s Corner” of the next 
number — a remarkable production, beginning, 

f °Twas on a dark and stormy night; 

The waves were dashing high; 

I saw a horrid, awful sight 
Which made me shriek and cry.” 


CHILD’S PLAY. 59 

Her style was eminently tragic, and she was reserved 
for the sensation columns of the News. Harry was 
more romantic, and undertook the heavier work. 
Lyle Wallace once contributed an able article on 
“ Science,” but he was never permitted to repeat the 
offence. Tom said it was not fair that such heavy 
facts should be stuffed down a fellow in vacation, 
when rest was desirable after the labors of the 
year. (I have always observed that this rest from 
labor is insisted upon by those who require it least. 
Tom Hastings certainly never exhausted himself in 
the pursuit of knowledge.) Eva supplied the fash- 
ion-plates and descriptions thereof for the News , and 
did it well, too, having a taste for drawing, and cer- 
tainly a keen eye for anything which looked to the 
adornment of her pretty person. Annie Hastings 
contributed jokes, riddles and such lighter matters, 
while Tom and the small fry collected small items, 
such as “ Mrs. Vixen ” (a setter dog) “ has five fine 
children — two of them black, one spotted, and two 

yellow, like herself ;” “ The celebrated Mr. R , 

a member of the Virginia Legislature, is visiting at 
Woodlawn now;” “ There was an exciting scene 
in the poultry-yard on Tuesday. The youth and 
beauty of Woodlawn turned out, and were on the 
fence to witness the contest between the big yellow 
rooster (Julius Caesar) and the little Dominica (Na- 
poleon Buonaparte). The ladies waved their fans 
and the men shouted wildly as Julius Caesar turned 


60 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


tail and ran off the field pursued closely by Napo- 
leon Buonaparte, who crowed wildly and exultingly 
over his victory.” 

But all this is a digression, as I had summoned 
my reader to an editorial conference. 

I had been walking in the garden one morning, 
when, attracted by the murmur of voices, I drew 
near to the schoolroom window and saw the editors 
thus engaged. I placed myself quite out of sight, 
but in hearing, so that I might enjoy without inter- 
rupting business. A silence had fallen upon the 
workers for some moments after I entered upon my 
surreptitious post of observation, but I saw from 
the growing confusion of Lin’s locks that a thought 
must find vent in words before very long. It came 
at last : 

u Little Uncle, what rhymes to ‘ mighty ’ ?” 

“ ‘ Flighty/ ” suggested Harry, gravely, without 
looking up. 

Another silence ; Lin was trying to use the sug- 
gestion. 

“ It won’t do !” The voice had a despairing accent 
and the tawny locks tossed wildly. 

“ ‘ Highty-tighty,’ ” said Harry, laughing ; “ and 
if that won’t do, you will have to alter your line 
and put some other word at the end.” 

“ Don’t laugh, Little Uncle,” pleaded Lin, “ or I 
will never get on.” 

“ ‘ Laugh,’ my dear fellow !” said Harry, growing 


CHILD'S PLAY. 


61 


instantly grave. “ I assure you I never felt less like 
laughing in my life; I am too much in the mud 
myself. You stop for a minute and help me. What 
would you do ? I will undertake your rhymes after- 
ward. Here is Horace — You know the story I have 
been writing for the last three numbers of the News f 
Well, Horace is about to fight a duel with his rival, 
Frank. I don’t want to kill either, and thought I 
would make them both fire in the air ; but if both 
live, it is so hard for Ellen to decide which she 
will marry. They are both good fellows, and she 
don’t know exactly which she likes best.” 

Lin listened devoutly, with her head on her hand 
and with the point of her pen sticking like an excla- 
mation-point up through her hair. At last she spoke : 

“If Frank marries Ellen, is there no one for 
Horace to marry ?” 

“ No one ; there are only the three characters in 
the story.” 

“ And you couldn’t bring in another girl ?” 

“ No, indeed ! It is too late for that. I must 
finish it off this time. I am so tired of the old 
stupid thing, and I have a splendid plot for another 
story.” 

“Then” — Lin spoke decidedly — “Horace must 
die. It was a mistake to make both such good 
fellows and so handsome, and all that ; it is a great 
deal easier to make one die when one is better than 
the other. But, anyhow, Harry, it isn’t anything 


62 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


when you get used to it. I remember a long time 
ago, when I first began to write for the paper — last 
year, wasn’t it? — I had to make one of my girls 
die, and I was afraid to go to bed that night. But 
it got easier and easier, and now I rather like it. 
When you don’t know what to do with them all, it 
is so easy just to kill them ; and it is a comfort it 
is not sure-enough true.” 

Harry did not laugh, although I knew he would 
have liked to ; but I was obliged to beat a hasty 
retreat, for fear I should betray myself. 

I watched with especial interest for the Woodlawn 
News that week. Horace died and the rhyming 
difficulty was satisfactorily adjusted. 

The evenings at Woodlawn are lovely spots in 
my memory. We elders used to assemble on the 
front portico, while the children had games of romps 
on the lawn in front — such old-fashioned games as 
“ Prisoner’s Base ” and “ King King Cantaloupe.” I 
was surprised to find how the dreamy Lin waked up 
and enjoyed these romps. Her awkwardness forgot- 
ten, she displayed the agility of a young Indian in 
the performance of athletic feats, while her laugh rang 
out merrily. “ Little Uncle” always took her un- 
der his protection ; she insisted on going on his 
side, and he never allowed her sensitive nature to 
be touched by the thoughtless jokes of the others. 


CHAPTER V. 
OUR NEIGHBORS. 


AT the time of which I write the plantations of 
Virginia often consisted of thousands of acres, 
so there were no very near neighbors, as there now 
are, when a short walk brings one to the house of a 
friend. Nevertheless, three of them were in easy 
riding-distance and must at least be mentioned. The 
names of these places “ re-echo the murmurs of the 
forest trees ;” they are “ The Oaks,” “ The Elms ” 
and “The Bower.” 

The first named was the residence of a quaint old 
couple — Mr. and Mrs. Campbell — whose children 
had left them for homes of their own. Mr. Camp- 
bell had never in his dress conformed to the usages 
of more modern times ; a gentleman of the last cen- 
tury he was, and retained its costume. He looked 
like an old picture just stepped out of its frame, with 
his buckled shoes, silk hose, knee-breeches and swal- 
low-tailed coat, his hair powdered and tied in a 
queue behind, and his two body-servants — patriot- 
ically called Lafayette and Washington — dressed in 
the same style, but their clothing of much coarser 
material and their woolly heads without powder. 

63 


64 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


But Mrs. Campbell indulged in no such ancient 
fancies, and brought her guests from Mr. Campbell 
and the past to herself and the present with bewil- 
dering rapidity. A very remarkable character was 
Mrs. Campbell ; she had been a beauty and a belle, 
and her present husband was her fifth. She talked 
about each one with the familiarity and freedom of 
constant association. Her frequent matrimonial 
connections she seemed to regard as so many tributes 
to her charms, and, as is frequently the case with 
ladies who have enjoyed a reputation for personal 
attractions, she retained the jaunty and coquettish 
manner of her far-away youthful days. Her con- 
versation was copiously interlarded with stories of 
her triumphs. She counted her husbands as an In- 
dian counts his scalps, but she was apt to get her 
spouses mixed, and would correct herself until she 
brought out the whole list, as thus : 

“Now, my dear, Mr. Wilson said — No; I 
think that must have been Mr. Murray. Or was it 
Mr. Thompson? Well, it may have been Mr. 
Blair, after all. Well, I declare! I believe it was 
dear. — Dear, was it you who made that flattering 
remark about my blue head-dress?” 

“ Dear ” never failed to show a great distaste to 
these domestic hashes, and always indignantly dis- 
claimed being made heir to the complimentary sen- 
timents of former husbands, saying, 

“ No, my dear ; I don’t remember that you ever 


OUR NEIGHBORS. 


65 


had a blue head-dress. It must have been one of 
the other fellows.” 

At “ The Elms ” lived Mr. Taylor, a great, burly 
giant large in heart as in body, with a gentle little 
wife who set him off, as he did her, by force of 
contrast. They had a large family of girls and 
boys, and a visit to them was always a treat to 
grown people and to children. 

At “ The Bower ” lived Mr. Taylor’s widowed 
sister, Mrs. Mason, with her four children. Her 
husband had been a good-hearted, dashing spend- 
thrift — one of whom the world says, “He is his 
own worst enemy” — always pursuing a phantom 
of success and never constant enough of purpose to 
catch it. At one time he spent more than his in- 
come in sheep, and laid out the imaginary income 
which was to accrue as the profits of the investment 
in refurnishing his house and restocking his farm. 
The sheep proving a failure, he next imported cat- 
tle ; they died off* from change of climate before 
they were paid for. His last chimera was blooded 
horses. Before its brief day had passed he met his 
death by being thrown from one of them, and left 
his estate mortgaged and his young wife and chil- 
dren to struggle with poverty. His wife, who had 
trusted and loved him, refused to allow the world’s 
judgment against him. In spite of the remonstrance 
of her friends, she determined herself to vindicate 
his wisdom. She took up one after another of his 

5 


66 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


schemes, and developed them successfully. She ac- 
cepted all the advice she could on this subject, and, 
like many another woman, succeeded where the man 
had failed ; and when her sons and her daughter 
grew to manhood and womanhood, they were un- 
able to trace their father’s folly in the unmortgaged 
estate flourishing in all its parts. One alone of her 
husband’s fancies she never touched, and that was 
fine horses ; she never saw one without a shudder. 
She was a lovely woman, dwelling quietly with her 
children. The romance of her life over, she lived 
for others, always cheerful, but with a subdued 
cheerfulness which such sorrow as hers ever leaves 
behind it. She w r as always ready with helping 
hand at the wedding-feast, the bedside of the 
sick or the open coffin. Her short season of joy 
and her baptism of sorrow had fitted her for all 
experiences. 

Wyndham — a county-town of a few thousand in- 
habitants — about eight miles away, contained the 
necessary adjuncts to country comfort — the church, 
with its pastor, the physician’s office and the post- 
office, besides the stores, where the fashions, if a 
little obsolete, were as eagerly sought for as in Paris 
itself. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DESERTED. 

7 T was not until late in September, when the 
J- woods were beginning to assume their autumn 
tints, that I heard again of my suggestion to Judge 
Wallace regarding Eva and Linda Dalrymple ; then 
I found every arrangement concluded as I wished, 
and with a wisdom in the details which I had not 
contemplated. Eva was to go to a country board- 
ing-school kept by an old friend of Mrs. Wallace, 
and Linda and myself were to remain at Woodlawn 
for the entire year. Then followed that particular 
phase of the arrangements which threw Lin into 
spasms of delight and completed my satisfaction. 
Harry, Tom and Lyle were to remain with us, and 
while acting as our protectors were to attend the 
instructions of a tutor employed by Mrs. Macon. 
All parties were charmed. Eva was happy at the 
prospect of a new field in which to conquer, and 
Lin and the boys made the most extensive plans 
for the enjoyments of the winter. Even while Sep- 
tember suns were scorching us they began to con- 
struct a sleigh which would hold all parties. I was 
to have the oversight of the housekeeping, but, as 

67 


68 


UNDER THE PRVNING-KNIFE. 


u Mammy v was my assistant, it did not involve much 
trouble. “ Uncle Robin ” was major-domo of the 
establishment, and the other positions in the bureau 
of domestic affairs were distributed amongst the 
negroes who were left at Woodlawn, and to whom 
the winter was generally nearly a holiday. As 
there was little farm-work to be done and only the 
cattle to see after, they lived at their ease, with 
plenty of fuel and clothes, and with no anxiety 
about their future, which they knew was in good 
hands. 

Mrs. Wallace was not sorry to have a new sphere 
in which to exercise her administrative ability, and 
was most energetically engaged providing for our 
every possible comfort. A portion of the house 
was to be closed and we were to be snugly settled 
in three or four rooms. In short, her careful mind 
knew no rest till our little household was fully 
equipped and in working order. 

That a full supervision over us by the neighbors 
might be secured, a great dinner was given at Wood- 
lawn just before the autumn flitting, to which they 
were all invited, and were then and there led to 
pledge themselves in a solemn manner to keep a 
vigilant eye upon us in our loneliness and to pro- 
vide for any and every emergency. Dr. Brown, the 
family physician, was ordered to make a professional 
visit to Woodlawn once a week, whether sent for or 
not, to ward off any sickness which might by chance 


DESERTED. 


69 


be lingering in the air ready to pounce upon our de- 
voted heads. 

“ Ah, cousin !” said Miss Betsey ; “I am sorry 
to see you have so little trust in Providence.” 

“Only using the means, Betsey,” answered the 
judge, laughing. “ I am like the old woman in 
the Revolution who prayed that the British might 
not burn her house, and when she saw them coming 
set it on fire to ensure herself against an undue trial 
of her faith.” 

The good pastor and his wife were also there, and 
congratulated themselves that Woodlawn would not 
be quite deserted during the winter. 

The autumn departure from Woodlawn was an 
extensive affair ; it was like moving a colony. All 
the vehicles, private and public, were called into use 
for the first part of the journey. I recall the scene 
on that bright October morning as I stood on the 
steps with the three boys, Lin, Mr. Campbell, Mr. 
Taylor and Mr. Gordon, who had come over to 
give the last assurances of their interest in us. On 
the outskirts were the negroes, noisily taking leave 
of the nurses, cooks and chambermaids who were 
part of the company. There was the immense yel- 
low-bodied stage from Wyndham, piled high with a 
promiscuous jumbling of servants, children, lunch- 
baskets and shawls, with etceteras too numerous to 
mention. The anxious mothers preferred seeing 
servants and babies started in this before they got 


70 UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 

off themselves. Harry said it was the dregs of the 
party ; if so, the dregs were certainly stirred this 
morning. 

“ Hetty, don’t let that child cry,” says an anxious 
mother. 

“ Laws, mistis, he jes’ want de whole stage to 
hese’f, dat’s all. Hush ! Sh ! sh !” 

“ Whar’s dat carpet-bag ?” calls another. 

“ I do ’blege to hab dat carpet-bag. — Oh, Mars’ 
Tom, pleas’ see ef dey dun put dat little red carpet- 
bag on top. I mus’ hab it.” 

“ Oh, here it is ! I’se settin’ on it,” exclaims 
another. 

“ Oh, marster, kin I hav’ my ban’-box in here ? 
It hab my Sunday bonnet in it, and I know it will 
be mash’ on top.” 

“ No place in there, Milly ?” asked the all-suffer- 
ing “ master.” 

“ Plenty of place, sir. Jes’ giv’ it to me. Thank’e, 
sir and it was added to the pile within. 

“ Good-bye !” — “ Bring me one coat from Rich- 
mond !” — “ Bring me one handkercher !” — “ Bring 
me one hat !” — “ Bring me some sugar and coffee 
and ’bacca !” — “ Bring me a stick of candy !” re- 
sounded from the stayers at home as the great coach 
with its load of live lumber moved off to make room 
for the next vehicle. 

Judge Wallace saw all off before he mounted. 
While Robin held his horse he went around and 


DESERTED. 


71 


shook the hand of each negro, even to the smallest 
little woolly -head in u mammy’s ” arras, and I ob- 
served that each one bowed low, saying, “ Thank’e, 
master ;” from which I inferred that he left some- 
thing in each palm to purchase ’bacca, which is as 
necessary to the happiness of the Virginia negro as 
is candy to that of the white child. Judge Wallace’s 
last farewell was to Lin, and then for the first time 
her tears fell. I think if the choice had been given 
her then she would have gone with “ grandpapa.” 

These partings have their uses : they bring to the 
surface the best feelings of nature. I saw Lin throw 
her arms around Eva’s neck and heard her whisper, 
“ I am so sorry, Eva, I have been so cross often. 
Please forgive me. I will try and be better when 
you come back.” 

Eva whispered with a complacent little smile, 

“ Yes, dear, I forgive you, and I dare say I too 
shall be better when I come back.” 

Handkerchiefs waved until each vehicle bore a 
resemblance to a ship covered with canvas ; then all 
entered the grove and were out of sight, and we 
turned into the house feeling very desolate and de- 
serted. I do not know if I too would not have 
changed my mind had the choice been given. 

There is much pleasant pastime for my memory 
in those autumn days when I brought back to my 
heart a youthful glow with those joyous boys and 
my Lin, who every day developed some new grace, 


72 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


and her spirits, without the drawbacks upon them 
which had beset her life, were wild often to ex- 
cess. She was just in the right position to develop 
healthily and break up her old dreamy habits. 
The centre of the affection of those around her, she 
lost her self-depreciative mood, grew confident of 
pleasing and was naturally merry and witty with- 
out contrasting herself with others. Every bright 
day we took long walks together, and would return 
laden with bright leaves, ferns and mosses, which 
we would weave into ornaments for the house ; and 
soon we presented quite a bower-like appearance. 
The library was our sitting-room, and here in the 
cool evenings we gathered, I either with workbasket 
or with book, and the young people clustered around 
the green-covered table at their lessons, while an 
astral lamp shed its soft light upon their faces. 
The blazing fire of well-seasoned hickory crackled 
and sputtered merrily upon the wide hearth, and 
the old-fashioned upright clock ticked soberly away 
in the corner and chimed the hours which brought 
new pleasures to our little colony in the great house 
at Woodlawn. 

Soon came from our travelers letters full of anx- 
iety and love. The anxiety we laughed merrily over 
from our secure fortress, and our answers dispelled 
their unreasonable fears. Some of them, I know, 
changed their regards for us from piety to envy ; 
the judge, at least, would willingly have dropped 


DESERTED. 


73 


his wand of office to share our simple enjoyments. 
Eva’s first letter from school was so absurdly char- 
acteristic that I transcribe it entire : 

“Edgenwood, Oct, 21, 18 — . 

“ My Dear Lin : Grandpa brought me up here 
a week ago, and already I begin to feel quite at home 
in my pleasant room. I have three room-mates, all 
pleasant girls with one exception — Mary Reid, who 
is quite too sanctimonious to suit my taste. Alice 
Dangerfield is my favorite; she is beautiful and 
graceful, and so admired ! She is only fifteen, and 
has already had three offers. But she has no idea 
of marrying ; she is determined to see a good deal 
of pleasure first. She tells me all her secrets, and 
I tell her all mine; but you must not think she 
takes your place in my heart. No ; when you get 
older and wiser, you will be my conjidavite, of course. 
I am so glad we made up everything before we 
parted ! I assure you your tearful, penitent face 
quite touched me. And you need not worry any 
more over those old troubles ; I shall never think 
of them again. I never do when I forgive, and I 
have no doubt when we next meet you will have 
gained control over your temper and we will all get 
along beautifully. 

“ I feel very anxious to hear how you are all 
making out. I suspect you will find it fearfully dull, 
but I hope you will keep busy with your books and 


74 UNDER TIIE PRUNING-KNIFE. 

music; and that will prevent you from feeling it so 
much. 

“ My teachers seem pleased with me so far ; I 
have no doubt I will improve. Miss Bruton would 
frighten you to death, she speaks so decidedly and 
as if she meant every word she says. But you know 
I am not much afraid of people, and I have no 
doubt we shall be very good friends. 

u Harry said you would keep up the Woodland 
News. I will send you the fashions, and you must 
send me the paper. 

“ God bless you, dear Lin, and help you to control 
your temper. With love to all, 

“ Your devoted sister, 

“ Eva.” 

I smiled over the letter, but Lin accepted it in 
good faith. Eva far away was covered with a veil 
of charity impenetrable to adverse criticism, and I 
have no doubt Linda made greater effort to gain the 
mastery over her besetting sin in the hope of re- 
taining Eva’s approbation. But truly with the de- 
parture of Miss Betsey and Eva seemed to have 
gone all temptation. Linda never was fretful, and 
there was now no place in our lives for passionate 
outbursts. She was also becoming quite notable 
and orderly under my especial supervision, and de- 
lighted in helping me to keep the boys’ clothing in 
order. 


DESERTED. 


75 


As I wrote to Judge Wallace, I was more than 
ever delighted with the working of my plan. Our 
neighbors were very attentive, and we always spent 
Saturday with one or the other of them. I persuaded 
Mrs. Macon to let her little Katie come over and 
take lessons with Lin, so that a sweet little com- 
panion was secured to her when the boys were at 
school. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 

T HE rainbow-hued leaves of beautiful October 
had fluttered and died, and the trees were bare 
and naked-looking. Old Winter sent some icy 
breaths to remind the earth that he was on the way. 
Soft Indian Summer with her vapory veil passed by 
and smiled, and December with its whisperings of 
Merry Christmas had begun its reign before the long- 
wished-for snow arrived. The homemade sleigh 
was improved and finished. Lin, with my help, 
lined and padded it to make it more comfortable, 
and now all was in readiness. 

The evening talks about the library fire were all 
of adventures in the snow. Tom Hastings had 
spent a winter in Canada with his uncle, and he told 
of the wonderful coasting on the hillsides, of the 
skating on the river. Oh, if for once we could only 
have a regular first-class snow, how grand it would 
be ! I was continually called into consultation for 
my opinion whether the air was not full of snow, 
but the snow did not come, for all the wishing, 
until the early days of December, and then Lin and 
76 


A WINTER IN THE MO UN TAINS. 


77 


myself were wakened very early by shouts from the 
boys’ room, which was next ours, and by Harry call- 
ing loudly, 

“ Wake up, Lin, and look out of the window. 
The old woman up above is picking her geese in 
good earnest now.” 

Lin was up in a moment, and responded with a 
scream of delight when she saw the air thick with 
snowflakes, while the ground was completely cov- 
ered and the box bordering the flower-beds looked 
like beautiful iced cakes, she said. It was a beau- 
tiful snow, certainly, and, as it continued to fall 
heavily, the boys went off to school in their sleigh, 
leaving Lin gazing rather disconsolately after them, 
though cheered by their promise of a splendid ride 
in the afternoon. 

It was a long morning, I remember, and Lin 
found it very hard to fix her mind upon books, 
which for the first time were “ stupid.” But the 
sun at last beamed out so brilliantly, making the 
surface of the new-fallen snow glitter like diamonds. 
The longest lane must have a turning, and so the 
end of that morning was announced by the merry 
sleighbells, and Lin, looking out, proclaimed in joy- 
ful tones the fact that not only were the boys re- 
turning, but another sleigh bore them company, 
containing Mrs. Macon and her whole family. We 
were soon in the midst of merry greetings. Mrs. 
Macon had called only to pay a short visit, as she 


78 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


was on her way to Wyndham, but we persuaded 
her to leave Katie with us, promising that after 
our ride in the afternoon we would return her in 
safety. 

We hurried through our dinner, and, with fresh 
horses to the sleigh and with Robin as our driver, 
started olf, the keen frosty air bringing the blood 
to the cheeks of the children ; and the merry laugh 
and song rang out gleefully in the old woods. We 
first went into Wyndham, where we found letters 
from our friends, all so characteristic of them, the 
burden of the judge’s letter to Harry being — 

“ See that Mr. Slemins ” (the overseer) “ has 
plenty of well-seasoned wood always on hand, and 
that the stock is well fed. Draw freely on me for 
any money which may be wanted for household 
affairs, and see that there is no stint in anything. 
And, my boy, I depend upon you and. Tom and 
Lyle to take care of Miss Maxwell and little Lin. 
I hope the doctor comes out regularly, and that 
none of you have been sick.” 

Mrs. Wallace wrote to me : 

“ Be sure to see that Mammy airs the parlors 
every week. Have the covers removed from the 
furniture and everything well dusted. Tell Robin 
to see that the wood-boxes are well filled all the 
time, and do, pray, keep roaring fires. I have to 
comfort the judge about you all every cold day, as 
he insists that you are going to freeze. Make Mr. 


A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 


79 


Slemins supply you with whatever you want in the 
way of fresh meat, and don’t spare the smoke- 
house.” 

Eva wrote to Lin : 

“ I shall spend my Christmas in Richmond, and 
I suppose I shall go out a great deal to make up for 
my dull time here. I have a new silk dress, which 
fits me beautifully, and every one says my hat is 
very becoming. I am learning some new songs to 
sing when I go to Richmond ; my teacher says I 
sing them beautifully. I hope you are making 
some progress in music. Do practice ! I shall be 
quite ashamed of you if you have not any accom- 
plishments, and you know, dear, when one has 
not beauty, it is so important to cultivate other 
things.” 

On our return we stopped to pay a visit at the 
Elms, and old Mr. Campbell came out himself to 
meet us, followed closely by Washington and La- 
fayette, and between them Lin, Katie and myself 
were lifted out of the sleigh, and our bricks and 
foot-stove were taken off for a fresh warming. 

As we entered the house Mrs. Campbell met us, 
all smiles. 

“ Ah ! what bravery ! How I envy you your 
youth ! I used to love so to sleigh — Willy and 
myself ; that was my first. But Mr. Jackson never 
would let me sleigh at all for fear of the cold, and 
Mr. Morris — men are so different ! — was the mer-' 


80 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


riest man I ever saw, and he had such a charming 
sleigh, and we did enjoy it. And Mr. James — ” 

“ Oh, well, well, my dear, take the ladies to the 
fire and finish your domestic catalogue,” said Mr. 
Campbell. — “And, Washington, bring some cake 
and cordial. — Walk in, boys ; take off your coats. — 
Harry, you grow more like your father every day. 
A chip of the old block, ha, ha !” 

“ He ! he ! Dear will have his jokes. So it was 
with my — ” 

“ My dear” interrupted Mr. Campbell, “ will 
you please see to that cake and cordial?” 

“ Certainly, dear, but I know it will be here 
directly. Men have not a particle of patience. — 
Having had five husbands, my dear Miss Maxwell, 
you will acknowledge I ought to know ;” and, giv- 
ing Mr. Campbell a coquettish little tap on the 
shoulder as she passed, she tripped from the room. 

“ Well ! well !” said the old gentleman as she 
closed the door, rubbing his hands violently over 
his features until it almost seemed as if the roots 
of his nose must give way, and taking a final sweep 
through his gray hair. “ My wife is a — a very fine 
woman, my dear Miss Maxwell, and has been greatly 
admired in her day ;” and he turned almost fiercely 
upon me, as if to challenge my contradiction ; but 
I merely responded that I had no doubt of it. 

Further deliverance of opinion was prevented by 
the entrance of the gallant generals Washington 


A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 


81 


and Lafayette — one with plates and napkins, and 
the other with a waiter of cake and cordial, of 
which we partook generously. 

Mrs. Campbell returned with them : 

“ Do, Miss Maxwell take some of this peach cor- 
dial ! Every one likes my peach cordial. I got the 
recipe from Mr. Jackson’s mother, and both Mr. 
James and Mr. Morris used to declare it surpassed 
anything they had ever tasted. To be sure, I sup- 
pose that was partly because I made it, he, he ! 
But dear here is not so gallant ; he prefers his old 
Madeira, he says, to any home-manufacture.” 

We all bore ample testimony to the merits of the 
elder Mrs. Jackson’s recipe. It was certainly ex- 
cellent cordial, and we left Mr. Campbell to enjoy 
his Madeira alone, notwithstanding his assurances 
that it was not at all necessary for us to martyrize 
ourselves to please his wife. It seemed impossible 
for him to credit the fact that it could be a matter 
of preference with us. 

As the winter afternoons were short and we had 
to take Katie home — which would extend our ride 
considerably — we were obliged to pay a moderately 
short visit to the country, as it was not customary 
in those days to make calls of two minutes and a 
half upon neighbors one had ridden three or four 
miles to see. 

The stately old generals, in their quaint attire, 
were despatched to reclaim our bricks and stoves 
6 


82 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


from the kitchen-fire, and, having given a promise 
to come again soon, we took our leave, Mrs. Camp- 
bell saying to me at the last moment, 

“ I really must see more of you, my dear Miss 
Maxwell. I have just found out who it is you are 
so like : it is a sister of my former husband Mr. 
James. Perhaps you are related to the Jameses of 
Maryland ?” 

Here Tom was seized with a violent fit of cough- 
ing. Harry hurried out most precipitately to the 
sleigh, and Lin and Katie became instantly inter- 
ested in a picture over the mantel representing Mrs. 
Campbell in the garb of a shepherdess — very pink 
and white as to complexion and very wooden as to 
figure — overshaded by skies of the brightest blue 
contrasted with the grass of impossible green upon 
which she stood. I disclaimed the connection, but 
promised to allow her the gratification of a further 
acquaintance. 

“ Lyle,” said Lin as we drove off, “ you are the 
living image of my poor Willy and she put her 
handkerchief to her eye with a droll imitation of 
the mucli-married lady. 

“ Come, my dear !” responded Tom, taking Mr. 
Campbell’s position. “ I am sick and tired of your 
departed husbands ; let us bury them once for all 
and be done.” 

“ Come, children !” said Harry, even while he 
joined in the laugh which was irresistible; “ this 


A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 


83 


is too bad. I have something of the Indian in me : 
after I eat a man’s bread he is sacred to me. Don’t 
let’s laugh at them.” 

“And I suppose cake and cordial is still more 
binding,” said Tom the incorrigible. 

“ I thought it was only smoking the pipe of 
peace which secured inviolable friendship, Harry,” 
said Lyle. “ Now, as the old gentleman did not 
invite us to smoke, I think we may laugh just a 
little.” 

“ No ; I think Little Uncle is right,” said Lin. 
“ I am sorry not to laugh, because I think we can 
be so very funny over Mrs. Campbell, she is such 
a curiosity; but really I think it is more noble 
not to.” 

We all laughed heartily, but the move toward 
amiability carried the day, and the Campbells 
were permitted to rest. 

“ Well, here we are, Katie,” said I as we drew 
up to the door of the Bower. 

Mrs. Macon came and insisted upon our getting 
out, and the boys were perfectly clamorous for a 
visit ; but we resisted their entreaties, and, having 
deposited Katie, we went on, hoping to reach home 
by sunset. This we were not destined to do, for just 
as we passed the point of road which turned into 
the Oaks a stentorian voice behind us called, 

“Stop! stop!” 

We obeyed, and the rubicund visage of Mr. Tay- 


84 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


lor presented itself before us. He was mounted on 
horseback and came up at a Jehu pace, both horse 
and rider smoking at the mouth as if there were a 
furnace within. He said, panting, 

“ What do you mean by passing by my house ?” 

We explained that, as it was growing so cold and 
as night was coming on, we thought it would be 
better to get home. 

“ Nonsense !” he exclaimed. “ This clear, cold 
air never hurt anybody, and there is no cold that 
buffalo-robes and hot bricks cannot defy. — Robin, 
turn about and drive in.” 

This last peremptory order was delivered with a 
nod of the head in the direction of the house. 

I remonstrated. It was of no use ; we were left 
under his care, and he would make himself respon- 
sible for the safety of the party. 

“ Robin, drive in,” he repeated. “ Why, I would 
not dare to go home and tell my commander-in- 
chief that I had encountered this sleigh-load and 
had not succeeded in making a capture. Capital 
punishment would be awarded at once — ha, ha, ha !” 
and as he laughed it was like the thunder of a 
volcano. 

Lin whispered, 

“ Actually, I heard the dead leaves fall by 
hundreds and the bare branches rattle as in a 
storm.” 

Well, there was no appeal; so Robin obeyed 


A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 


85 


orders, and we scudded away over the frozen snow, 
the horse’s feet crashing its surface as we sped after 
our leader, who never slackened his pace until he 
stopped at the great gate leading into his grounds. 
In another minute we were at the door, and saw 
through the windows the blazing fires sending a wel- 
coming glow, which we seemed to feel as well as to 
see. In a minute the great voice sounded, sending 
its reverberations through closed windows and doors 
and creating a stir through the entire building : 

“ Hallo ! Betsy ! Mary ! Lucy ! Are you all 
dead ? Bring your hot blankets, your lemon-punch, 
and anything else for a set of frozen wretches I 
picked up in the woods — ha, ha, ha !” and all the 
time he was deafening us with his thunders he was 
lifting us out of the sleigh as if we had been feathers, 
Lin and the boys laughing in chorus with him ; and 
by the time we were on the doorstep the household 
was aroused and had rushed out to see what was the 
matter. “ Hallo, general ! I have merited ap- 
proval this evening,” he said, kissing the little mite 
of a woman who was smiling and cooing a welcome 
in her treble tones as she kissed each one of us and 
hurried us in to the fire. 

“ Father, actually you are the noisiest man in Vir- 
ginia,” exclaimed his merry daughter, Jane, who 
was himself in miniature, though she was by no 
means small. “ I thought it was the house on fire, 
or something else quite as dreadful.” 


86 


UNDER THE PRTJNING-KNIFE. 


“Oh dear !” chimed in the treble part of the duet ; 
“ it is so cheerful ! We all like to hear him an- 
nounce his coming.” 

“ I believe you would think it all right, mother, 
if he lifted up the roof,” said Jane ; and all laughed 
as her mother responded contentedly, “ Well, I sup- 
pose I would know he had some good reason for it.” 

The giant sung his base with hearty good-will, 
and kissed his loyal-hearted champion with as much 
zeal and with more unreserve than if they had been 
married only yesterday. 

We were soon divested of our wrappings, and re- 
joiced in our capture. Jane was the only daughter, 
and, indeed, the only child at home, as the two sons 
were away at the college in Williamsburg. 

It was a charming evening ; every particular of 
it is as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday — 
the substantial supper-table glittering with old fam- 
ily silver and delicate china, and the great round 
of beef which seemed so appropriate to our host, 
who shaved off the little thin curled wafers — a 
mingling of rosy meat with the white fat — with a 
skill I never saw equaled, and the broiled chickens, 
the white bread, steaming coffee, all so grateful to 
us after our ride, and the seasoning of a hearty wel- 
come which made it a feast for a king. 

We stayed till the moon rose, and then, well pro- 
tected under a fleecy mountain of shawls and buffalo- 
robes, with a perfect furnace at our feet, we started 


A WINTER IN THE MOUNTAINS. 


87 


for home. I remember so well the beauty of the 
night — the pure white world bathed in the beautiful 
silvery moonlight, the gaunt trees looking blacker 
and barer than ever by contrast with the soft tender 
hue of the landscape. A subduing influence was 
upon us. We left the bright fireside with words of 
mirth and jollity upon our lips, and expected a mer- 
ry ride home ; but gradually our voices sank away 
into silence. Tom was the last to succumb, and 
tried to rally the rest, but he too failed at last, and 
we pursued our ride in silence. Lin, snugly wrap- 
ped in warm coverings, drew closer and closer to 
my side, and at last laid her head on my shoulder. 
As we turned into the Woodlawn avenue I looked 
to see if she were sleeping ; but no : her great shin- 
ing eyes were fixed upon the starry skies above with 
an expression which made me ask, 

“ What are you thinking of, Linda ?” 

She whispered, 

“ I was thinking of the little child who thought 
the stars were the eyes of the angels, and I wondered 
if my beautiful mother, my father and Grandpapa 
Dalrymple might not be looking down at me.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A RETROSPECT. 


S IX years have elapsed since the events related 
in my last chapter — years which in passing 
have touched the boys and girls of my story and 
have transformed them into young men and maid- 
ens, have brought some gray hairs to the middle- 
aged and infirmities to the aged, but which, hap- 
pily, have not removed any of the family circle 
wont to assemble every year at Woodlawn. 

Eva has grown into a beautiful woman. Time 
in touching her has only softened her charms ; she 
is all she promised in beauty, and perhaps more 
than she promised. Her school-life, after all, did 
her good. If she does not think more soberly of her 
perfections, she has learned to conceal the fact, and 
according to the universal testimony she is a girl in 
a thousand. With her graces and accomplishments, 
it is no wonder that she has scores of lovers, but she 
has too good taste to boast of the fact — only blushes 
prettily when she is accused, and neither denies nor 
accepts the imputation. 

Lin is much more changed than Eva. We think 
88 


A RETROSPECT 


89 


she is very handsome, her miniature face and figure 
having developed into great comeliness. She is ex- 
ceedingly tall for a woman, and, although her feat- 
ures are by no means regular, her complexion is a 
clear olive, and her mouth, if too large, is redeemed 
by a row of beautiful white teeth. Her unmanageable 
hair is now a splendid suit, black as a raven’s wing 
and so long that the glossy coil covers the whole of 
the back of her head without any foreign aid what- 
ever. She has quite overcome her besetting sin, 
though it has left her a strong, determined will apt 
to carry her through any purpose deliberately formed. 
Fortunately, this is controlled by a loving heart, a 
temper almost morbidly sensitive and a strong relig- 
ous conscientiousness ; for Lin, I hope, is an earnest 
Christian, though wanting the developing touch 
which the discipline of life is always sure to afford. 
She is still the favorite with the boys, and, although 
“ Little Uncle” returned from a European tour a 
few weeks ago to find her quite grown beyond be- 
ing patronized, he does not seem to lose his interest 
in her on that account, and we — that is, “ grand- 
papa ” and some of the rest of us who love both 
parties — think there may be a closer tie one of 
these days, though it is best to leave these matters to 
develop themselves. 

Mrs. Macon’s boys have scattered — “ the one to 
his farm, another to his merchandise ” — while Katie 
is a sweet, bird-like little girl whom everybody loves, 


90 


UNDER THE PRXJNING-KNIFE. 


and Lin particularly, though there could not be 
imagined two girls more utterly unlike. Poor Tom 
Hastings thinks Katie the first of her sex, and Katie 
perhaps has a little tenderness for Tom in spite of 
his failings ; but she cannot acknowledge this, be- 
cause “ mamma for some reason would not like it,” as 
Katie is too much the true little woman to acknowl- 
edge to any one that Tom is somewhat of a scape- 
grace. The qualities which go to make up his being 
constitute him an agreeable companion and he has 
been sought after by all, and so he has gone astray, 
there is no doubt. Friends look grave. His mother 
and sister watch him anxiously when he comes into 
the room. His grandfather talks earnestly and af- 
fectionately to him of the critical position in which 
he stands. His father scolds and refuses to pay his 
debts, and poor Tom himself makes spasmodic efforts 
at reform, resolves stoutly to settle down to business, 
and walks about with wrinkles in his brow and a 
law-book under his arm, but, alas ! with no founda- 
tion which is not undermined by his own frailty. 
Until this summer he has not been to Woodlawn for 
four years, but “ grandmamma ” suggests it would 
be pleasant to have him come more, hoping for the 
power of old innocent associations ; and so he comes 
and meets with Katie, who used to be his sweetheart 
when they were “ tiny tots,” and now sh.e is the one 
influence which may draw him from evil compan- 
ions and dissipated habits. 


A RETROSPECT. 


91 


Lyle Wallace is a “ grand fellow,” everybody 
says, bearing about his handsome face the stamp of 
a long race of refined progenitors. He has just re- 
turned from Europe with Harry, and I think rather 
plumes himself upon his superiority to those who have 
never had that portion of their education finished. 
He talks learnedly about art, is enthusiastic about 
the old masters, pities poor mortals who have never 
dived among the classic ruins of Athens and Rome, 
talks after the manner of an acknowledged connois- 
seur about “ fine women,” compares our beauty — 
Eva — unfavorably with those he has seen upon the 
“ Continent,” though he does not dare to tell the 
young lady so to her face. But he is a little dis- 
dainful even of her, and, although perfectly court- 
eous to all women — his grandfather would not 
countenance anything else — still, it is with a new- 
style courtesy, to us plain Virginia people an exag- 
gerated, complimentary style which I think is a for- 
eign importation. 

Nothing could be more totally different than Har- 
ry, who has come back as he went away — except 
with more manliness, of course, but with the same 
warm heart — and Woodlawn makes a boy of him 
again. He thinks Eva wonderfully pretty, but Lin 
is still his favorite. In short, it is that season of 
their lives when young birds begin to pair and gather 
the things with which to build nests of their own. 


CHAPTER IX. 

ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 

I T was a bright morning in September when I 
was wakened by a shower of warm kisses on 
my face and opened my sleepy eyes to find Lin 
standing laughing over me, looking, with her rich 
bloom and her dark locks, the realization of Au- 
tumn. She was dressed in her riding-habit, and 
the pretty little cap was as becoming to her style 
as it well could be. 

“ Why, Maxy,” she said, giving me the pet-name 
I had learned to love ever since our winter together 
at Woodlawn, “you looked the impersonation of 
the enchanted princess when I came in, and I was 
the prince who cut my way to you and kissed you 
into life.” 

I was accustomed to Lin’s fanciful style of talk- 
ing, and it would be hard to say how many charac- 
ters I had borne during my acquaintance with her. 

“But,” I said, “you are a regular Di Vernon. 
Where are you going so early?” 

“Well, yes; I am Di Vernon. Frank Osbal- 
distone wants me to ride off to the mountain-top to 

92 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 


93 


see the sun rise. Frank is a troublesome fellow, 
but I like to do what he wants.” 

“ Are you always going to do what he wants ?” I 
asked, half laughing and half serious, making a 
dive into my pet’s young heart. 

“Well, I would not be surprised, Maxy, if I 
did,” she said, the color deepening in her cheek as 
she answered the thought concealed in my mind. 
“ You see, it is such a lifelong thing with us two. 
Little Uncle and I have been partners in everything 
all our lives, and I could not play partners with 
anybody else, you know; for if he were to come 
in, it would break up all other arrangements.” 

I had spoken at random, and was utterly sur- 
prised to find how far matters had progressed. 
Raising myself in bed and drawing Lin down to 
me, I said, 

“ Child, what are you telling me ? Have Harry 
and yourself been making any serious arrange- 
ments?” 

She nodded her head, then said, 

“And why not? Is it any harm? Grandpa 
would like it, I know, and it seems the most nat- 
ural thing in the world.” 

“ When did all this happen ?” I asked, still sur- 
prised. 

“ Last night only. We had a good sensible talk 
by moonlight, and we are to finish up matters this 
morning and then tell them all.” 


94 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ But do you love Harry ?” I asked, astounded 
at Lin’s coolness. 

“ What a question, Maxy ! Of course I do ; I 
could not help it. He is the dearest fellow in the 
world ; I could not be happy with anybody else.” 

“ Lin ! Lin !” called Harry, under the window. 

“ Coming, Little Uncle,” she called, throwing 
open the window and leaning out above him. 
“ There ! I sprinkle you with rose leaves for a 
good omen and she showered down upon him a 
handful of the flowers she held. 

“Why, you look perfectly glorious, my Juliet,” 
he said, laughing. “ ‘ I would I were the glove upon 
that hand, that I might kiss that cheek.’ ” This very 
melodramatically. 

“You can do it, then, when I come down, with- 
out being an old glove. No ; don’t let’s be Romeo 
and Juliet. They were quite too sentimental ; I 
prefer Di Vernon and Frank Osbaldistone. And 
now I am coming.” 

Away she flew, and as they rode away I heard 
their young voices making music on the fresh morn- 
ing air. Of course I was glad — it was what we had 
all looked forward to — but still there was a shade 
of disappointment in the manner of her telling the 
little romance of her life. “ Romance ” ! There did 
not seem a particle of it ; she hardly blushed, and 
yet of course she must love Harry. How could it 
be otherwise ? 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 


95 


I lay there in a waking dream until Eva knocked 
at my door and came in, just out of bed, too, with 
her long hair streaming around her and her sleepy 
blue eyes half opened. 

u Has Lin been telling you of her engagement to 
Harry ?” she asked, yawning. 

“ Yes,” I answered. “ Did she tell you ?” 

“ Of course ; she could not keep it hidden. She 
is just as she used to be when she got a new doll — 
not satisfied until every one had seen it.” 

Eva yawned again and threw herself lazily into 
a great arm-chair, shaking her dimpled little feet 
out of their loose slippers and looking down at them 
with a glance of approbation. 

“ W ell, every one will be very much pleased,” I 
said. 

“ Oh yes ; it is a made-up thing. Grandpa has 
had his heart set on it all the time. I never could 
understand why he passed me over in his family 
arrangements ;” and the young lady glanced at the 
mirror and pulled the long golden hair around her, 
so as to be more becoming. “ I suppose it is be- 
cause I am not like the Dalrymples ; they say I am 
like my beautiful mother.” 

u You are very like her,” I said. 

“ You saw her, then ?” she said, turning round 
upon me. “ Maxy, where is my mother buried? 
Why will no one tell me?” 

I had often evaded this question, and only gave 


96 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


the answer I had before used, which had become 
stereotyped : 

“ Your father took her to Paris, and she never 
returned.” 

“ Oh, if I could only have seen her ! Was there 
no portrait of her ?” 

“ No.” 

“ What a shame ! Such beauty ought to have 
been preserved for her children. I am glad I am 
like her. I consider it an honor.” 

I always came out of these little contests feeling 
humbled, as if I had lost something of my truth and 
sincerity ; for though the words I had spoken were 
true, yet they conveyed a wrong idea and so had in 
them the spirit of falsehood. Yet what could I 
do? I could not tell these children what Judge and 
Mrs. Wallace jealously guarded them from ; and 
then, too, while I often accused them of weakness 
in not telling the entire truth, I was conscious 
of a great shrinking in my own spirit from the idea 
of my high-spirited, noble Lin knowing that which 
would cause her to bow her head. She had said to 
me so often, “ Maxy, I could bear any trouble but 
disgrace. If any of our boys or any of our friends 
did anything disgraceful, like stealing money or 
getting drunk, or other humbling things, I would 
die. But there is no danger. I am so glad we are 
honorable people, and so were my own grandpapa 
and my father.” 



Lin announcing her Marriage 


Page 97 




r 









































































■ 






























ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 


97 


We were all at the breakfast-table when Harry 
and Linda came in ; we had heard them laughing 
long before we saw them. They were not a senti- 
mental pair of lovers. There was a little scuffle 
outside before they made their appearance, and Lin 
said, “ Harry, stop ! I will not take your arm,” and 
came running in trying to disengage her hand from his. 

“ Oh, Linda Dalrymple, will you never get over 
your hoydenish ways?” murmured Cousin Betsey, 
shaking a despairing head. 

“ Yes, Cousin Betsey ; when her head gets a little 
gray,” said Harry, as usual taking up the cudgels 
for Lin. “ We like her just as she is now.” 

Grandpa, in the mean time, was giving the young 
girl's fresh cheeks a morning kiss ; and it was very 
shocking, but she wanted to give him pleasure, and 
leaned over and whispered something in his ear. It 
was this : 

“ Harry and I are engaged to be married.” 

“ Not really, Lin ?” I heard him say. 

“ Yes, really. He was to tell you after break- 
fast, but I could not wait.” 

“ May God bless the children ! — Harry, you have 
made your father very happy and tears of joy 
stood in the old man's eyes . — “ My dear,” catching 
Lin fairly in his arms and taking her to Mrs. Wal- 
lace, “this is to be our little daughter. — Harry — 
Ah, you scamp you ! The idea of your thinking of 
being married !” 

7 


98 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“Not too young, father?” said Harry. “ Twenty- 
three my last birthday.” 

The scene cannot be described ; it was made up 
of tears and laughter. The old people blessed the 
young couple and Lin cried ; and when Harry came 
to stop the tears, she snubbed him a little, but smiled 
on him a minute after. Then Harry would have 
her by him at table, and actually did succeed in 
embarrassing her a little by his lover-like attentions. 
Miss Betsey alone fanned herself discontentedly over 
the pretty scene, and Eva looked dissatisfied that Lin 
should usurp all the attention of the company. 

It was certainly a very matter-of-fact affair, we 
all said, as we laughed over it, and Lin said, 

“ Of course ! What was the use, when people 
had been raised together, of making a fuss and con- 
cealment about such a thing as this?” 

But when the marriage came to be talked about, 
the young lady took a new turn. She was not ready 
to be married ; it was a great deal better for them 
to be engaged a long while — ever so long. The idea 
of a child like herself talking of being married ! She 
should wait until her elder sister was disposed of. It 
was in vain Harry urged the matter ; she was obsti- 
nate. If she was not worth waiting for a while, she 
was not worth having. Besides, she would not for 
the world be married anywhere but at Woodlawn, 
and, as it was nearly time to return to Richmond, 
they must wait, at any rate. In short, she refused 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 99 

to listen to any arrangement looking to an early con- 
summation of their plans. I was not sorry for 
this, as I also thought it was quite too early for the 
child to take on herself the cares of married life, 
and very discontentedly Harry was obliged to agree 
to wait. 

There was a great contrast in these lovers. 
Harry was as ardent as the most exacting mistress 
could desire ; he never lost sight of his fiancee’s 
claim upon him, and delighted in paying her all the 
delicate little attentions which are so beautiful in a 
lover. If he went into town, he always brought 
back to her some little token to prove that she had 
been in his thoughts while he had been away, and, 
no matter how short his absence had been, was 
never satisfied until he had found her and received 
her welcome home. Mrs. Wallace privately whis- 
pered to me that he was just such a lover as his 
father had been, and Miss Betsey ejaculated under 
her breath, 

“ Poor young fool ! To waste himself upon a 
girl that doesn’t care the snap of her finger for him !” 

I knew that was not so, but still I felt it to be 
true that, while Lin loved Harry truly, yet the 
depths of her heart were still unstirred. She had 
not yet learned to make a distinction between the 
love for her playfellow — “ her little uncle,” as she 
called him— and the first passion of a woman’s 
nature. As to her loving any one else better than 


100 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


she loved Harry, I knew too well her staunch, true 
nature to suppose such a thing. Her feeling would 
develop for him with the growth of her womanhood. 
She was yet but a child, and felt as a child and un- 
derstood as a child, but the time would come when 
she would put away childish things. 

Eva said one day to Harry, 

“ Lin will not marry you now, and she is right. 
She wants to have a little fun this winter in Rich- 
mond — a few flirtations.” 

He turned on her almost fiercely : 

“ It would not do to judge Lin by your standard, 
Eva ; she values one true whole heart more than a 
score of broken ones. I should be wretched indeed 
if I could not trust her to take care of my honest 
love. I would as soon doubt the sun in the heavens 
as doubt her perfect truth and purity.” 

Eva shugged her pretty shoulders and said he 
had better take care — that she knew the sex better 
than he did. But he turned on his heel and walked 
away, and Eva well knew she had offended him, but 
she did not in the least care for that. 

Harry left for Richmond some weeks in advance 
of the rest of the family, as he was to begin the prac- 
tice of law there and must make some preparations 
beforehand. Then it was I first caught a glimpse 
in Linda of what is almost the stereotyped feel- 
ing with a young lady in her position. Before 
this parting came she seemed to think her whole 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 101 


duty consisted in consoling Harry, who, I think, 
after all, would have been more comforted by an 
exhibition on her part of excessive regret than by all 
her comforting, loving words. 

“ Harry, you are a perfect goose !” she said. “ One 
would think we were going to be parted for a life- 
time instead of for three weeks. Why, that will 
pass like a flash.” 

“Not to me, Lin,” said Harry, disconsolately; “ I 
feel as if it would be a perfect age. You see, I have 
become so accustomed to having you around. And 
you : how will you stand it? Will you too not miss 
me, dear ?” 

“ Of course I shall miss you. How could I help 
it? You are always with me. And our walks and 
our rides are all over now ;” and the quick tears 
filled her eyes. 

Harry was quite encouraged by the symptom. 
Seizing Linda’s hand, he drew her to him and 
kissed her as he said pleadingly, 

“ Oh, Lin, if you would only marry me now, be- 
fore we go to Richmond ! You could go along with 
me ; we need never be separated again.” 

“ No, Harry ; it is of no use to ask such a thing. 
I am not ready to be married now. Maybe I will 
be ready next summer, when we come back to 
Wood lawn, but certainly not before ; and if you 
are not a very good, patient Little Uncle, I will not 
then.” 


102 UNDER THE PRUNIN O-KNIFE. 

“ But, Lin, if you only felt as I do ! If you 
only wanted to belong to me as much as I want you, 
darling !” 

“ Nonsense, Harry !” and Ian’s forehead puck- 
ered with vexation at his unreasonableness. “ I be- 
long to you just as entirely as if Mr. Gordon had 
said all those words over us.” 

“ Eva says,” said Harry, “you only want to 
have a little girlish fun this winter — flirtations, 
and so on.” 

“And did you believe her?” Lin’s face fairly 
flamed at the accusation. “ Harry, did you dare to 
believe her?” 

“No, dear child,” said Harry, soothingly; “I 
told her you were above any such nonsense as 
that.” 

“ ‘Above any such falsehood,’ you ought to have 
said, Harry.” Lin turned her face out of sight as 
she made the rare confession. “ I know you think 
I do not care for you as you do for me, and maybe 
it is different ; but I feel as if I had in me that 
which would stand a lifetime of wear and tear by 
your side. Don’t you believe me?” 

Harry was in ecstasies : 

“ Believe you ! I should think I did, you darl- 
ing ! I would doubt my own existence before I 
doubted this staunch, true heart.” 

Harry went away next day looking very discon- 
solate, and he would have been gratified, I think, 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 103 


could he have seen how Lin moped without him ; 
she did not seem to know what to do with herself. 
Grandpapa rallied her on her strange mood. 

“I shall write to Harry,” he said, “and tell him 
how disconsolate you are.” 

“ Do !” she said, brightening, with a laugh. 
“ Harry would be so pleased ! It doesn’t seem right 
in him, but I believe he would like to have me per- 
fectly miserable because he is not here.” 

“And are you ?” asked Tom Hastings. 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said candid Lin ; “ I just 
feel as if I did not know at all what to do with 
myself. I miss Harry here and Harry there and 
Harry everywhere. I feel pretty much as Katie 
Mason does when you go away, I expect, Tom. 
Ask her.” 

Lin here laughed mischievously, for Tom and 
Katie were very shy lovers, and the idea of their 
sacred feelings being talked of in the broad garish 
light of the sun was so startling that Tom, usually 
so ready to respond to a joke, was entirely out of 
countenance. He only said stiffly, 

“ I assure you, I’ll — I have no reason to sup- 
pose Ka — Miss Mason, I mean — would feel any- 
thing if I were to go to the North Pole.” 

“Ah, Tom !” said grandpa, laughing heartily ; 
“ she has you there. It is dangerous to play with 
edged tools, Tom, and my little Lin is an edged tool, I 
think and the old man hugged Lin in approbation. 


104 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ It is dangerous only for people who live in glass 
houses and throw stones, grandpapa,” said Lin. 
“ But Harry and I are more sensible than most 
lovers : we don’t have any secrets.” 

“And you lose the most beautiful part of the 
romance,” said Eva, who had just come in. “ But 
you could not keep anything to save your life ; you 
would not value it if it could not be handed round 
to the community. I should not be at all surprised 
if you had talked the whole matter over with Mrs. 
Campbell and had her sympathetic account of the 
loves of the angelic departed as a case in point.” 

“ Eva, you know that is not so,” said Lin, flush- 
ing indignantly. Eva still had the power of excit- 
ing Lin more than any one in the world. 

“ Well, confess, now,” she said : “ did you not 
talk the whole matter over with Mrs. Taylor?” 

“ Of course ; there was no harm in that. Mrs. 
Taylor is always so sweet and sympathetic, and I 
thought I ought to tell her.” 

“ Did you tell Mrs. Macon and Katie ?” asked 
Eva, provokingly. 

“Eva, how can you be so disagreeable? Just 
think how beautifully Mrs. Macon loved her hus- 
band ! When she asked me, was I to behave like 
a goose and not say a word, when she has known 
me all my life? 

Lin’s eyes were flashing now. 

“And did you tell Mammy too ?” asked Eva. 


ROMANCE AND COMMON SENSE. 105 


“ Grandpa, make her stop,” said poor Lin, turning 
to him in dire confusion, half laughing, half cry- 
ing. “She makes me a perfect sieve. — Yes, I did 
tell Mammy. I was obliged to, because she nursed 
me.” 

There was a shout of laughter following this 
confession, and Lin, just as she used to do six years 
before, ran out of the room crying over her own dis- 
comfiture. 


CHAPTER X. 

AN AUTUMN FLITTING. 

T HESE journeys to Richmond were always very 
beautiful, occurring as they did just at the 
change of the leaf, and we came down from our 
mountain-eyry leaving Woodlawn in a perfect bou- 
quet of gorgeous hues, sober and stately as ever, 
but looking so desolate, Lin said, as we left her with 
only the negroes about the front porch and old Mr. 
Slemins in their midst. 

We never hurried very much, often taking two or 
three weeks in the flitting, as dotted all along the 
way there were friendly houses which claimed a 
call — some of an hour or two, some of a night, 
though this was not often, as the party was too 
large to admit of the infliction. But we carried 
great baskets of provisions, and there were houses of 
entertainment where for forty years the Wallaces had 
stopped going back and forth, and where the chil- 
dren were all welcomed as old acquaintances; the 
freshest eggs, the fattest chickens, the richest milk 
and the most golden butter always greeted us at 
these country farms, the good cheer rendered the 
106 


AN AUTUMN FLITTING. 


107 


more delicious by the long day’s journey over rough 
roads. 

In these days, when the world moves by steam 
and electricity, and when mankind grumbles over 
“ only twenty miles an hour,” such locomotion would 
be wearisome in the extreme, but it was very differ- 
ent then, and one bore heroically the creeping over 
rough stones day after day at the average of three 
or four miles an hour. Yes, incredulous reader ! 
not only bore it, but enjoyed it — more even than 
we do our journeys now-a-days. And as I look 
back along the line of years all recollection of wea- 
riness has passed away, and I remember only the 
charm of it all — the long stories with which Judge 
and Mrs. Wallace enlivened the way, the songs and 
jokes of the young people which made the woods 
resound, the substantial feasts by the side of cool 
shaded springs, the adventures which marked par- 
ticular spots or the stories of past adventures recalled 
by such spots, and the delightful relief afforded to 
cramped limbs by a walk at sunset, when the chil- 
dren would gambol about us like young kittens, and 
even the girls and the boys grown into the neigh- 
borhood, at least, of manhood and womanhood ran 
races and romped with the youngest. Surely, if we 
gain much in these rapid times, there is something 
lost from the sweet associations of a life. 

Halfway on our journey Harry met us, and I never 
doubted the reality of Lin’s love for him when I saw 


108 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


her in the delightful surprise of that meeting. When 
I think of the bright happiness of those few days, I 
rejoice in them, because the clouds so soon lowered 
over their young lives, so sadly obscuring their 
sunlight. 

A lady’s riding-horse accompanied the party, 
and the saddle was soon unpacked ; Lin found her 
riding-habit very easy to come at in her trunk, so 
we saw very little of either Harry or herself for 
' any length of time. 

It was a very tired but a very happy party that 
landed at the great white house on Main street 
which claimed Judge Wallace as its owner. We 
had been two weeks on the journey, and altogether, 
being human only, we were glad of the change to 
a quiet, luxurious home-life. Still, I think there 
was mingled a little regret that the pleasant journey 
was over. Then followed the excitement of getting 
fairly shaken down into our winter quarters. The 
establishment was in as perfect order as if the fam- 
ily had never left it, as Mrs. Wallace always took 
care to leave in charge servants upon whose faith- 
fulness she could rely, and as a class these trusty 
old Virginia negroes were never surpassed ; and 
then Miss Mary Tazewell, Mrs. Wallace’s sister, 
lived only a few squares away, and she always 
received Mrs. Wallace’s orders and supervised their 
execution. 

Though I have never mentioned this lady, she is 


AN A UTUMN FLITTING. 


109 


worthy of a formal introduction to my reader, and 
she certainly merits a particular description as one 
of the most exquisite specimens of single-womanhood 
I ever met with. A few more such would effect- 
ually silence the profane babbling of the world which 
carps at and ridicules this much-enduring class, 
which at best has furnished to the world of suffer- 
ing and sorrow its most disinterested, unselfish phi- 
lanthropists, its tenderest, most sympathizing nurses 
and most effectual comforters. Whether or not Miss 
Mary had a page of romance in her life I never knew, 
but doubtless she had, as years after, when she had 
gone to her rest and lay with folded hands and 
closed eyes in the parlor of her own little home, 
I was, with Mrs. Wallace, looking through an 
old secretary which stood in her room. You do 
not see such now except an occasional family-piece 
kept for the sake of old associations. The top 
drawer was half the depth of the whole affair, 
which in appearance was a high bureau with white 
glass knobs to the drawers. The front of this top 
drawer let down and rested upon slips of mahogany 
which were pulled out like long arms, and thus was 
constituted a writing-desk. At the back of the 
drawer were a number of small drawers, and Mrs. 
Wallace was looking through these for some article 
— I don’t remember what — when suddenly we came 
upon a package of old letters tied with a faded blue 
ribbon, and fastened in with the letters were the 


110 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


remains of a withered bouquet. This was all I ever 
knew, as Mrs. Wallace simply said she wanted these 
buried with her ; and they were laid upon her bosom, 
the record of a dead past upon the dead woman’s 
breast. 

But, whatever this ghost was, it certainly had not 
left one drop of bitterness in the old lady’s nature. 
She was one of those who give you a glimpse of 
heaven here on earth. I always felt, when I was 
with her, as if the curtain which shuts out the future 
world were drawn a little aside that we might have 
an idea of what the angelic nature was like. She 
lived as close to the Throne as it was possible for one 
inhabiting an earthly tabernacle to live ; and when I 
have sometimes gone in upon her and found her sit- 
ting in her own room with an open Bible or some 
book of religious devotion upon the stand beside her, 
I have known, by the light still shining upon her 
face, that she has just come down to meet me from the 
mount where she has been talking with God. But 
her life was not confined to this room, nor was it here 
alone that she held communion with her God ; far 
from it. Her life was one of labor in the cause of 
Christ. There was not an obscure street in the city 
to which she and others like her had not bent their 
steps, seeking out the needy, ministering to the sick, 
giving the cup of cold water to the “ little ones ” of 
the kingdom and bestowing of her substance to re- 
lieve their wants. She was one of those happy 


AN AUTUMN FLITTING. 


Ill 


people who have found their work. I said to her 
once, 

“ I wonder you never went as a missionary.” 

“ Why, my dear,” she said, "it was not needed. 
Surely there are heathen enough at home.” 

But, although her life — so much of it — was passed 
amid scenes of suffering and distress, she never 
brought into society the sadness with which they 
must have touched her spirit. She was always 
welcomed as the light of the company, and her 
beautiful, bright old face always shed a halo over 
every circle in which she moved. She was very old 
when I first knew her — some years older than Mrs. 
Wallace, whom she never could convince herself 
was beyond the prime of life. 

“ Well, my dear,” she said one day when Lin 
and Eva were laughing at her about this hallucina- 
tion, “ this thing of growing old is at best somewhat 
a thing of fancy. Now, I have known some per- 
sons of sixty who were much younger than others 
of not half their years. It is not altogether a thing 
of time ; the spirit often retains its youthfulness long 
after the body has yielded to the power of time, and 
again many a youthful body bears an old, wasted 
spirit. And as you grow older you will all find 
that your memory recalls so vividly the scenes of 
youth and childhood that it is wellnigh impossible 
to realize the years that have passed.” 

“ But, Aunt Mary,” said Eva, “ grandma seems 


112 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


so very old with her gray hair and cap and spec- 
tacles. And then only see her grandchildren !” 

“ It is true,” said Aunt Mary, sagely bowing ac- 
quiescence at the indubitable evidence thus summed 
up, “Ann is no longer a young woman, but she 
bears a young spirit still, thank God ! and when I 
think of the years between us, and feel, looking 
back to my youth, that what is so vividly present 
with me cannot be far off in the past, I never can 
feel that she is an old woman. She is young to me, 
at any rate, and I like to feel it so.” 

I never saw any one who so set forward the love 
of the gospel as she did ; others talked of the terrors 
of the law, but she spoke only of the tender love 
which redeemed us. Did one talk of the Judge 
upon his throne ? She told of the Advocate by his 
side. The law of charity was the law of her life. 
Did one speak of an offender? She was sure to 
bring a mantle of charity to cover him over. No 
wonder every one loved her, one was always so safe 
in her hands. I can see her now coming forward 
to welcome me with her face beaming with real, un- 
affected pleasure at seeing me. Eva once said there 
was no temptation for Aunt Mary to tell little 
society stories, because she did love every one 
and was always glad to see people; and this was 
true. 

She lived in a small cottage about two squares 
from Judge Wallace’s, alone — that is, if it can be 


AN AUTUMN FLITTING. 


113 


called living alone, for she was seldom by herself. 
Her one spare-room was sure to be occupied. Per- 
haps it was some poor child who had been sick for 
a long time and wanted a change, or a woman who 
had no home and would stay with her until one was 
procured for her ; or it was some poor soul groaning 
beneath both poverty and sickness who was under her 
healing power ; and the more aggravated was their 
distress, the more sedulously did this dear Christian 
soul minister to them. She would come in some- 
times in her brisk, busy, cheerful way. 

“What do you want, auntie?” some one would 
say as she went peering around searching for some- 
thing. 

“ I only wanted to hunt up a few flowers to put 
in my guest-chamber to make it look cheerful. I 
am going to have a poor girl there to-day who has 
been sick so long, and I think the change and cheer- 
ful society will do her good ; and a few flowers will 
help the business immensely.” 

Many a cherished bouquet has she wiled away 
even from self-indulgent Eva, who was not over- 
much given to denying herself anything for others. 

Lin loved nothing better than to go round and 
help “ auntie ” to entertain her company or to go 
with her to visit her poor people, and many a de- 
lightful hour have I spent in the bright, cheerful 
room, with its wonderful healing power, seeing the 
tender influence of Christian love working its way 
8 


114 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


to some sick, weary heart as well as strengthening 
the sick, weary body. 

There was a little girl — Allie Gray — who was a 
special favorite with us all. She had come to light 
in one of Miss Mary’s raids into the dark alleys of 
the city — a little feeble body distorted and crippled, 
twisted with cramps and weary from long suffering, 
surrounded by such poverty as denies even the or- 
dinary comforts of life to its victims, and without 
that knowledge which, by assuring a happiness a 
little beyond us, helps us to bear the weight of sor- 
row here. Miss Mary had entered the dark home 
like the first beam of sunrise dispelling the night. 
She had whispered sweet words of consolation, had 
introduced comforts hitherto unknown and had 
borne the little weary sufferer again and again to 
her guest-chamber, where, surrounded by all the 
comforts her kind hand could bestow, Allie tasted 
a happiness of which her life had never before 
dreamed, and for the future drank in a hope which 
made the pains of the present comparatively easy 
to bear. 

When Allie was announced as Aunt Mary’s guest, 
both Lin and myself were prone to run away from 
the gayeties of home for the quiet room and the little 
peaceful white face on the pillow in Aunt Mary’s 
guest-chamber. 


CHAPTER XI. 
A DISCOVERY. 



S my readers will guess, Judge Wallace’s posi- 


-LL tion, his wealth, his hospitality and the beauty 
and accomplishments of his young wards secured for 
them the choicest society the metropolis afforded. 
Linda Dairy m pie’s engagement to Harry Wallace 
deprived her of the eclat which might have attended 
her entrance into society, though her sensitive reti- 
cence among strangers would always have excluded 
her from the honors of belleship — if honors they 
are — and also prevented her entering upon her gay 
career with more than a tempered enjoyment. 

In Eva’s heart there was one point of dissatisfac- 
tion which, though the world bowed at her feet and 
did her homage, still rankled in her egotistical heart; 
and this was that her younger sister, whose attrac- 
tions she had been wont to rate so low, had secured 
a lover for herself ; and the blood mounted to her 
cheek when she thought that the time might come 
when she, with all her beauty and graces, would be 
compelled to enter society under the chaperonage 
of Mrs. Harry Wallace n6e Linda Dalrymple. So, 
although she affected to laugh at the childish engage- 


] 15 


116 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


ment as a thing gotten up by the family, she secretly 
chafed at it and determined to secure for herself as 
soon as possible a brilliant parti which would throw 
in the shade the absurd little domestic affair. 

The winter was but beginning when there arrived 
a stranger who seemed to bring all the requisites 
even Miss Dalrymple could require. She had never 
seen him in jackets and aprons. He was wealthy 
and handsome, and bore the aristocratic patronymic 
of Harrison — Dr. Charleton Harrison, a young 
graduate of medicine from Baltimore, who came to 
recruit in Richmond society before entering upon 
the labors of his profession. He brought letters of 
introduction to Judge Wallace, who welcomed him 
with his usual warmth, and as a first step toward 
promoting his enjoyment introduced him to his own 
household. I knew Eva so well that, in spite of her 
perfect self-possession, on that first evening I recog- 
nized her intentions with regard to Charleton Harri- 
son. I saw her casting many glances toward the hand- 
some head bowing so courteously to Mrs. Wallace. 
He was one of the proudest-looking men I ever saw. 
It amounted almost to haughty arrogance, though, 
as in every respect the Wallaces were his peers, this 
trait had no opportunity for display. 

As my story has little to do with the romance of 
Eva’s life, I pass it over in a few words. Charleton 
Harrison bowed his proud knee at the shrine of her 
beauty, and she, weighing his many attractions, lis- 


A DISCOVERY. 


117 


tened with a willing ear to his suit, exulting in his 
very pride as another tribute to her charms. I 
really think Eva loved him as much as it was in 
her nature to love any one except herself. He “ filled 
the bill,” if I may be forgiven for once in my life 
making use of a slang expression. There was so far 
no ripple on this very transparent stream of love. 
Everything was satisfactory, and Charleton Har- 
rison was welcomed in the household as Eva Dalrym- 
ple’s accepted lover, to the great chagrin of the re- 
jected aspirants, who looked on with envious eyes. 

Eva was a little shaken out of her usual self-pos- 
session by the rapid course of these events. She was 
happy and exultant, as was natural, over the prospect 
before her. As soon as possible after the engage- 
ment letters from his mother and sister welcomed 
her into the family with great kindness, though in 
their expressions there was a stateliness which bor- 
dered on stiffness. Charleton loaded her with pres- 
ents, and his usual grave dignity seemed almost 
endangered by the ardor of his devotion. 

Matters had just reached this point when some- 
thing happened which startled us all from our con- 
dition of happy security. It was in this wise: 
Linda had gone out one morning, as she was apt 
to do, for a walk with Harry before he settled down 
for the day. She did not return so early as was her 
wont, but to this we did not give a thought. About 
twelve o’clock Dr. Harrison was announced, and 


118 UNDER THE PR UN1NG-KNIFE. 

Eva, arrayed in her most becoming costume and 
blushing like a rose, went down to meet him. It 
was about half an hour after that I heard Lin come 
in at the front door, and, passing with lagging foot- 
steps very different from her usual buoyant move- 
ments by the parlor door, she came up the stairs, and, 
different from her usual custom, went into her own 
room without coming in to speak to me. Struck 
by the little variation from her usual habit, I rose 
and, putting down my w r ork, went to seek her. I 
found her sitting, with her hat and cloak on, gazing 
into the street below her. She did not turn as I 
entered, being seemingly absorbed in her occupation. 

“ Lin I said. 

She turned to me with an expression upon her 
face which alarmed me because I had never seen it 
there before. 

“ What is the matter ?” I asked. 

Instead of answering me, she asked me a question 
which sent a thrill of fear to my heart : 

“ Maxy, what is it about my mother ?” 

“ What have you heard?” I asked, breathlessly. 
I saw that the old stereotyped answer would do no 
good ; there was some real knowledge at the bottom 
of her question. 

She told me this : Harry and herself, after taking 
a longer walk than usual, separated at the door of 
Aunt Mary’s house, he going to his office and she 
to spend an hour or two with the old lady. She 


A DISCOVERY. 


119 


was vexed to find she had already gone out. Step- 
ping into the little parlor, she found a most tempt- 
ing fire burning in the grate, and after warming her 
cold fingers she determined to wait there for Aunt 
Mary’s return. She drew the large arm-chair to 
the window, and, taking a book, seated herself most 
comfortably, first opening the door into the hall 
that she might be sure of hearing the old lady when 
she came in. The heat of the room, after coming 
out of the sharp air, overcame her, and before she 
had read a page she was asleep. She wakened with 
a start. What was it that had wakened her ? There 
were voices talking at the front door, and she dis- 
tinctly heard Miss Betsey Briggs say, 

“ I cannot believe Cousin Lyle is going to allow 
that fine young man to marry Eva Dalrymple with- 
out telling him about her mother. If he chooses to 
mix that vile French blood with his own stock, it 
is all well enough, but to allow another family to 
walk blindfold into the ditch is another matter.” 

“ My dear Betsey,” said Aunt Mary, “ you need 
give yourself no anxiety. Lyle is perfectly honor- 
able ; he will do what is right in the matter.” 

“ I hope so,” was the answer, “ but Cousin Lyle 
is so wrapped up in these girls it is a great tempta- 
tion to him to conceal a matter which might prevent 
this most desirable match.” 

“ He will do what is right,” reiterated Aunt Mary ; 
and then they parted. 


120 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Aunt Mary went directly up to her room, and Lin 
did not call her ; she felt so miserable, so anxious, 
that she just wanted to get home and ask me to please 
not hide anything from her, but to tell her the truth. 

“ Linda,” I said, “ I cannot tell you ; I have no 
right. You must ask those who know more of the 
matter than I do.” 

She started up directly : 

“ Grandpapa is not here, but grandmamma must 
tell me. I will know ! Oh, Maxy, is it anything 
very disgraceful? I can stand anything but dis- 
grace. 4 Bad French blood ’ ! I can’t get the sound 
of that out of my mind.” 

I shook my head ; I dared not say anything. 

Lin left me, and before she came back she knew 
the worst. Her face was as pale as that of a ghost, 
and her eyes were red with weeping. 

“ Ah, Maxy !” she said ; “ grandpapa did it for 
the best, but I think we ought to have known 
this long ago. I feel like an impostor.” 

While we talked Judge Wallace knocked at the 
door. He had heard of the accident, and came to 
comfort the child. He took her in his arms and 
went over the sad story gently and tenderly as he 
could, dwelling much on the poor young mother’s 
sad disadvantages, her husband’s devoted love for 
her, her beauty and attractiveness, and touching as 
lightly as possible upon the last act of the sad trag- 
edy. He told her, while she sobbed on his shoul- 


A DISCOVERY. 


121 


der, how every step had been taken to trace the 
unfortunate woman, and how at last they had heard 
something which satisfied them she had died. 

Lin cried so bitterly that I cried for sympathy, 
and the first words she spoke were, 

“Oh, grandpa, indeed, indeed, I don’t think I 
ought to marry Harry. I have bad blood in my 
veins, and yours is so pure ! Oh how dreadful !” 

“ Bless your heart, darling child ! you are all 
Dalrymple. Harry has known this all the time, and 
loves you so much the better because you are all his 
and no one else has a claim to you. You have bad 
blood, indeed ! It is the best kind of blood f 9 and 
the old man kissed her. 

Harry had known it all the time ! This also was 
a surprise. Everybody seemed to have known it 
but herself and Eva. Oh, Eva ! What would she 
think ? Then, when we thought she was getting com- 
forted, came another great cry and burst of tears : 

“ Oh, grandpa, only suppose she should be alive 
and come back ! Oh how wicked I am to wish 
that my own mother is dead — I, who have so often 
wished I had a mother like other girls ! But indeed 
it is so dreadful ! The idea of having a mother who 
is not an honor and glory to one !” 

Poor child ! I never saw greater suffering in 
one so young. Lin was not ordinary in anything, 
and her proud, sensitive nature cowered and shrank 
at the touch of shame. 


122 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Of course Eva too had to hear the sad story, and 
the contrast was never more apparent between the 
two sisters than in the way she looked at it. 

“What am I to do?” Eva cried, passionately. 
“ My prospects in life are ruined — I, who have the 
world at my feet ! — Grandpapa, you will not let any 
one know this ?” The fact is Eva was a grand ego- 
tist by nature. 

It was touching to see Harry’s trouble about the 
matter ; and when Lin shrank away from him and 
said, with her great gray eyes full of tears, “ Harry, 
I think it is better we should not be married, on ac- 
count of the bad blood in my veins,” he laughed at 
the idea. 

“ You silly darling !” he said. “ Every drop of 
your blood is as pure as the crystal dewdrops. And 
besides, Lin, if your veins ran thick with the blood 
from a long line of robbers and murderers — only 
think ! robbers and murderers ! — and you were this 
precious Lin Halrymple, it would not make the 
slightest difference to me. I have not the least 
desire to marry the blood of your ancestors; I 
want you just exactly what you are, and I would 
not give up one drop of your precious blood, I 
don’t care where it came from.” 

“ That’s very sweet in you, Harry dear,” said Lin, 
with grateful humility; “but just suppose it should 
come out some day? Bad blood does sometimes, 
you know, later in life.” 


A DISCOVERY. 


123 


“ Yon goose, you !” laughed Harry. “ If it 
should 1 come out/ as you call it, I’ll catch every 
drop of it and bottle it.” 

“ Oh, Harry, please don’t laugh. Indeed, it is a 
very solemn thing.” 

But Harry would not take a solemn view of the 
matter, and at last laughed Lin out of some of her 
sorrow and dismay; but her manner to him was 
changed : it lost the perfect freedom which had so 
characterized it. She was more shy with him, and 
it looked strange enough to see her blush when his 
steps sounded in the hall as ordinary young ladies 
do about their lovers. But I think she was more 
conscious of her deep love for him now than she 
had ever been before ; the cloud in which she stood 
had developed the child’s rare nature into woman’s 
earnestness. Lin was never again quite what she 
had been. 

Nor was the discovery without its effect upon 
Eva. She was nervous and excited, and insisted in 
the most moving terms that Hr. Harrison should 
not be told. He was to leave on the morrow, and 
there was no more reason than there had been be- 
fore. 

“ That may be,” said the judge, very quietly, “ but 
I take a different view of the matter. I have been 
so much in the habit of looking upon you as my own 
children, or solely with reference to your father and 
grandfather, that I have perhaps ignored the other 


124 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


side of the question too much. My duty is now 
plain, my child : Dr. Harrison must know every 
circumstance. 

Eva cried piteously. 

“ Nay, my child,” he said ; “ why distress your- 
self so needlessly ? If he is worthy of you at all, 
this will make no difference to him, and surely, if 
he is not, it had better be known now than later.” 

But this view of the matter did not afford much 
comfort to Eva, and she still persisted in her en- 
treaties that Dr. Harrison might not be told. Here, 
however, Judge Wallace was immovable ; once con- 
vinced of the course it was right for him to pursue, 
nothing could turn him from it. So he sought an 
interview with the young man, and told him all the 
circumstances. It was evidently a terrible shock. 

“ My dear sir,” he exclaimed, “ this is a great — 
I may say a most unpleasant — surprise to me. I 
had imagined, sir, that Miss Dalrymple could bring 
to me an escutcheon unstained as the one I bring to 
her.” 

“And, since that is unfortunately not the case,” 
said the judge, with stately severity, “ you wish to 
withdraw from your connection with her ? Be as- 
sured, my dear sir, you will have no difficulty; 
Miss Dalyrmple does not wish that you should feel 
humiliated by your marriage with her.” 

“ My dear sir,” answered the young man, rather 
overawed by both the manner and the words of 


A DISCOVERY. 


125 


the old gentleman, “ you misunderstand me. I am 
sincerely attached to the young lady, and cannot give 
her up ; but, sir, you must make an allowance for my 
natural complaint that I was not told this before.” 

“ There,” said the judge, his cheek flushing, “ I 
feel that I have been to blame ; but really the thing 
passed so long ago, and we all think of these chil- 
dren as so entirely belonging to the noble Dairy mples, 
that I overlooked its importance. In considering 
the marriage of my own son with the younger sister 
I never gave the matter a thought, and this is my 
only excuse for neglecting to communicate it to 
you.” 

“ Well, I suppose it ought not, judge, to annoy 
me in the least ; but I come of a proud stock and 
of pure blood, and I do not wish to — I naturally, 
perhaps, shrink from being the first to sully the 
stream.” 

“ Young man,” said the judge, laying his hand 
upon the shoulder of his companion, “ I suppose 
that my ‘ stock/ as you term it, is as good as your 
own, but I have lived long enough to know that 
the best guarantee for the happiness of a couple 
meditating matrimony is mutual warm affection. 
Preserve that upon a basis of firm principle, and it 
matters but little about the stock. Grafting im- 
proves upon the original, and I have never discov- 
ered that the French graft upon the noblest native 
stock I ever saw had produced anything of which 


126 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


to be ashamed. I produce my little girls as a proof 
of that.” 

There was a noble pride in the old man’s words, 
and Dr. Harrison was moved by them. 

“ True, true, sir !” he said ; “ they in every re- 
spect support your argument. And the mother, you 
say, is undoubtedly dead ?” 

“ I think there is no possible doubt of that, sir. 
George Dalrymple caused every inquiry to be made, 
and gathered that a young woman answering her 
description died in a hospital from an injury received 
in the burning of a theatre in Paris a very short 
time after he left there.” 

“ That is a satisfaction, at any rate,” said the 
young man, with a very decided expression of dis- 
gust upon his aristocratic lineaments at the most 
ignoble end of the unfortunate mother of his beau- 
tiful fiancee. 

“Now, my dear sir,” said the judge, a little 
offended by his manner, “ let me insist that you 
shall not prosecute this affair at any sacrifice to your- 
self. I consider Miss Dalrymple a match for the 
noblest in the land, and that she honors any man 
upon whom she bestows her hand in token of her 
affection for him.” 

“ No one can appreciate Miss Dalrymple’s attrac- 
tions more highly than myself, sir,” said the doctor, 
a little stiffly, “ and I have no intention of seeking 
a release at her hands, and this unfortunate connec- 


A DISCOVERY. 


127 


tion need never be known by my family f 9 and so 
the matter ended. 

Dr. Harrison left for Baltimore the next day, 
and Eva soon forgot everything in the preparations 
for her marriage, which at his earnest request was to 
take place before the Wallaces left Richmond for 
the summer. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 

“ OUCH a plague !” ejaculated Eva, puckering up 
k-} her pretty face as she threw a note across the 
table to Lin one day in January as we sat at the 
breakfast-table. “ I do not see any use in running 
so continually after poor people as auntie does.” 

“ What is it now?” asked Mrs. Wallace. 

“ Ah ! Aunt Mary is not very well this morning, 
and wants Lin and myself to go to see after little 
Allie Gray and take her something tempting to 
eat.” 

“ Is that the little cripple auntie makes such a 
fuss over?” asked Harry as he read the note over 
Lin’s shoulder. 

“ Yes,” Lin responded, with the enthusiasm she 
always threw into any subject which interested her ; 
“ she is a darling. She is Aunt Mary’s most frequent 
guest, and I do love to go and read and talk to her, 
and to watch the little pale face light up as you have 
seen the sun come out of clouds — first a beam here 
and there looking out, and then bursting out in full 
glory.” 


]28 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 129 


“ How absurd you are, Lin ! I never heard a 
more inapt comparison — that poor meagre little 
beggar and the sun ! I have no such philanthropic 
tastes, I am happy to say. I shall content myself 
with giving a certain sum to charity and let other 
people take the trouble. I expect Harry and your- 
self will set up a hospital in your establishment. 
You will never be happy without your guest-cham- 
ber, as Aunt Mary calls her room.” 

All this Eva said with her pretty little scornful 
air which looked down upon such low tastes from 
an immeasurable height of superiority. 

Harry replied rather defiantly : 

“ Yes, Lin shall have just as much of our house 
as she pleases for the purpose of cultivating tastes 
so honorable to her.” 

Lin blushed and smiled gratefully up at Harry, 
while Eva elevated her eyebrows contemptuously as 
she said, 

“ Everybody to his liking ; but I am afraid you 
will be sadly at a loss when you come to see me, as 
I will not be able to furnish you with any such 
choice society. Well, I suppose we shall have to 
go on this mission of mercy, as Aunt Mary calls it. 
She doesn’t often ask such favors, and we cannot 
refuse.” 

“ Of course not,” said Lin. “ And besides, Har- 
ry, it is an opportunity too good to be wasted, for 
the future Mrs. Harrison to give an example of 

9 


130 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


her beautiful amiability upon which we can medi- 
tate when she is no longer with us and Lin and 
Harry laughed at their own wit. 

“ Well, I am sorry, sir, that this expedition has 
come in to interfere with our morning walk, but I 
suppose, as self-sacrifice is the order of the day, I 
must submit and go oif alone to exercise my patience 
in waiting for that client — so long looked for — who 
never comes,” said Harry, and he went merrily 
away. Ah ! how often afterward did he recall that 
bright parting which he so confidently expected 
was to last only for a few hours at most ! How 
often did he long for the opportunity of going back 
to say some word and to do some deed which would 
have prevented the catastrophe which so soon fol- 
lowed. 

As Harry went by the station the passengers poured 
out of a train of cars which had just come in, and 
the engine still stood blowing its noisy breath, as if 
wearied with travel. The wonderful achievements of 
steam were then fresh in the eyes of the world, and 
Harry paused as he was going by to wonder over them. 
While he stood there the passengers hurried by him, 
and went on down the street in the direction of the 
Exchange Hotel. Suddenly a voice by him said, 

“ Monsieur !” 

Harry turned, and standing beside him was a 
woman in the faded, tattered garb of the children 
of want. Her scanty locks, besprinkled with gray, 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 131 


escaped from beneath her miserable bonnet. Not- 
withstanding the evident poverty betokened by her 
dress, there was a strange air of jauntiness about 
the manner with which the poor creature held up 
the fragments of the shawl, and the faded bonnet 
was adorned with flowers still more faded. 

Harry never could tell why it was, but a sort 
of shudder ran through his frame as his eye took 
in the details of this strange figure. 

“ Monsieur, have pity and the tears were in the 
light-blue eyes otherwise so expressionless. 

“ Where did you come from ?” ejaculated Harry. 

The woman pointed to the cars : 

" I came to find my husband. Knew you — ” 

“ Harry !” called a voice behind him. He turned : 
it was Lyle Wallace. “ Grandpapa is waiting at 
the Capitol for you, and says will you hurry as 
much as possible, as he wants you to attend at once 
to that affair of Brown & German.” 

“ Certainly ; I will be there in a moment. Where 
are you going, Lyle ?” 

Lyle gave quite an elaborate account of his plans 
as they walked to the corner. 

“ There !” said Harry, starting and turning back ; 
“ by the bye, that forlorn woman ! I ought not to 
have left her without help.” 

Lyle laughed : 

“ Are you going to undertake the role of chevalier 
des dames f I think the unfortunate creature you 


132 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


were talking to as I came up went on down the 
street.” 

“ Pshaw !” said Harry ; “ I am very sorry. There 
was something queer about the poor woman, and 
she said she had come here to hunt for her husband 
— some drunken creature, I suppose.” 

“ Harry, you are a strange boy,” said Lyle. 
“ The idea of getting up an interest in that fantas- 
tical-looking figure ! You are well off to have 
gotten away from her, I fancy.” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Harry, gnawing at 
his finger-ends — a bad habit when his thoughts 
were perplexed. “ There was something about her 
face which struck me as if I had seen her before. 
She looked so sad, too, as if she wanted help. 
She looked hungry, Lyle, and a hungry woman is 
a deplorable object, you know.” 

“Well,” answered his companion, shrugging his 
shoulders in his most foreign style, “ I am nothing 
of a philanthropist, and on the Continent, you 
know, one gets so accustomed to wretched beggars 
that it is a little calculated to harden the heart. 
Hey ?” and the two young men walked on down the 
street toward the Capitol and very soon forgot all 
about the forlorn woman with the jaunty, poverty- 
stricken air. 

Brown & German absorbed the one, and the 
other, passing on down the street, encountered Tom 
Hastings with a law-book under his arm : 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 133 


“ Where now, Tom ?” 

“To my business, Lyle. You know I am in 

R ’s bookstore now, and I really am very hard 

at work, and like it too. One feels so energetic 
and — You know : so well satisfied. 

“ But what means this ?” said Lyle, touching the 
book. 

“ Oh, that is Tucker on Blackstone. You know, 
of course — although I am very glad to have this 
situation for the present emergency — that a fellow 
of my birth and standing altogether owes something 
to his family ; so I thought I would read law, and 
borrowed this book from the store and read last 
night until one o’clock. And, really, I don’t see 
so much in it. I don’t at all see why a fellow of 
any quickness could not get a license to practice in 
a very short time, and, with grandpa to help one, 
why, really, one might mount up quite rapidly, you 
know, Lyle.” 

“ Let me tell you a story, old fellow,” said Lyle, 
smilingly, linking his arm into Tom’s as they 
walked together. “Once upon a time there was 
a milkmaid who was going home with her bucket 
of milk upon her head.” 

“ Now, Lyle !” remonstrated Tom. “ I say ! it 
ain’t kind of you, when a fellow is doing his best 
to settle down, to laugh at him like that. I call it 
a very shabby trick.” 

Tom was really hurt, and showed it. As all the 


134 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


family had a sort of tenderness for poor good- 
hearted, careless Tom, even Lyle the elegant might 
have condescended to bind up the wounds he had 
made had not a diversion occurred in the shape 
of two bright faces glowing from the keen morn- 
ing air : they were no other than those of Linda 
and Eva Dalrymple. 

“ By George !” exclaimed Lyle. u Eva certainly 
is a beauty — so French in her appearance. Look- 
ing at her almost tempts one to make an effort to 
cut out that lucky dog Harrison.” 

“ I really believe you have the vanity to think 
you could,” said Tom, a little heat from the spark 
which had touched him lending a glow to his words. 

Any further speech was interrupted by the near 
approach of the girls. Each one of them bore a 
neat little basket covered with a napkin. 

“ Where are you two Red Riding-Hoods going ?” 
said Lyle. 

“ Going to see our grandmother, good Mr. Wolf,” 
said Eva, coquettishly answering Lyle’s admiring 
glance, which rested upon her face. 

The fact is, Eva, who was never ignorant of her 
conquests, had been conscious of a growing interest 
upon Lyle’s part for some time past, which had 
been promoted by the admiration she excited in 
society. Lyle was just the stamp of man to be in- 
fluenced by an overwhelming majority, and this 
growing sentiment might have developed into a 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 135 

matrimonial desire, haply, but for the appearance 
upon the field of the young stranger, and after 
that he was passed by a little disdainfully, or, at 
best, used only in the absence of the successful suit- 
or. This being the case now, the young lady’s 
smiles were very gracious. She could not do with- 
out a chevalier — that was certain ; and the hand- 
some Lyle was not to be despised. Besides, it was 
some tribute to her powers that he who had dared to 
despise her fascinations for a time now yielded in 
some degree to their sway ; so she courtesied back 
very roguishly when she assumed the character of 
the heroine of romance, little Miss Red-Riding- 
Hood. 

“ And have you the same old pat of butter and 
curds which the young lady has had for so many 
years?” said Lyle, lifting up the napkin. “No; 
quite an improvement, I declare ! An iced cake !” 

“Ah, girls !” said Tom, forgetting his ill-humor ; 
“ let’s play I am the grandmother, and you need not 
have the trouble of going any farther. I’ll take my 
part right here.” 

“And I would prefer continuing my character of 
wolf and taking a morsel of little Red Riding-Hood 
herself at the end of the race,” said Lyle, gallantly 
bowing to Eva’s pretty freshness. 

“ Oh, Tom,” said Lin, “ the little girl up in the 
mountains is putting the work into you, is she not ? 
I see you are really busy.” 


136 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Tom blushed, and boys and girls parted. How 
often they recalled this meeting and parting ! Per- 
haps it was a commentary upon Lyle’s admiring 
glances which made Eva say as they tripped along, 

“ I really think Dr. Harrison ought to be very 
good to me.” 

“Of course,” said Lin. “But why particu- 
larly ?” 

“ Oh, because I give up so much for him. It is 
such a sacrifice !” and the young lady sighed. 

“ ‘ Sacrifice ’ ! I don’t understand you. I sup- 
pose you would not marry him if you did not wish 
to. I really do not see how you sacrifice so much.” 

“ Oh, of course you cannot understand ; you have 
had such a different life from mine and Eva as- 
sumed that air which spoke such volumes of mean- 
ing of Lin’s inferior capacity for enjoying her ele- 
vated tastes. “ Lyle Wallace says he does not know 
any young lady in Richmond who has had such a 
career.” 

“ To what do you refer,” asked Lin, determined 
not to understand. 

“ Pshaw, Lin ! how stupid you are ! Why, do 
you know I was counting up last night, after you 
went to sleep? I have had twenty-seven offers, 
and I am not twenty yet.” 

“ ‘My dear, I have had five husbands, and I cer- 
tainly ought to know all about men,’ ” quoted Lin, 
with such an exact imitation of Mrs. Campbell that 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 137 


Eva was obliged to laugh, though her cheeks 
flushed with aimoyance. 

“And, Lin,” continued Eva, “ I am not altogether 
selfish in thinking of my new home. I have al- 
ready thought of your room, and of how much I 
am going to do to make you enjoy your visits to 
me.” 

“Thank you, dear,” said Lin, provokingly, “but 
I don’t know whether Harry will spare me to go. 
He is a very grasping, unreasonable sort of fellow 
to deal with, and, I expect, when he once has the 
power, he will use it.” 

“ Yes, Harry is very fond of you, I know ; but 
I would not like to settle down, just as you will do, 
where I’ve lived all my life ; and with Harry it 
would be almost like marrying one’s brother.” 

“ ‘ Every one to his taste,’ ” said Lin ; and as 
the wind tossed her draperies about she skipped 
with a little dancing motion to face the enemy and 
right her attire. “ I would not change Harry for 
ten thousand of the best men on the earth and 
Lin snapped her fingers with an air which plainly 
included the absent physician in the ten thousand. 

“ What a dreadful place to come to !” exclaimed 
Eva as they turned out of the thoroughfare into 
an alley. 

“ Perfectly respectable, I assure you,” said Lin, 
taking the lead; “I have been here often with 
Aunt Mary. It is full of her people.” 


138 UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 

The girls walked on until they emerged into a 
more open street — or, rather, a by-path — which bor- 
dered on the muddy canal familiarly known as 
“The Basin.” 

“ Not very attractive-looking,” said Eva, glancing 
over the poverty-stricken dwelling before which they 
stayed their steps. 

“ Well, now, Eva, there is a great deal in imagi- 
nation ; and if we just imagine very hard indeed, 
we can fancy ourselves in Venice with the limpid 
waters at our feet. And look what comes to aid us 
— a fairy-gondola ;” and as she spoke Lin pointed to 
a dirty canal-boat which at that moment happened 
to be coming in sight. 

“ You certainly are a goose,” said Eva, laughing, 
though, very merrily at the conception. 

Just then, in answer to repeated knocks, a pale, 
careworn woman opened the door, and upon their 
stating their errand led them into the house and up 
a rickety pair of stairs, saying, 

“Allie, poor child! will be glad enough to see 
you. She has been very droopy these last few days 
— seems too weak even for her basket-making. 
Come in ;” and she opened a door at the head of 
the staircase and ushered the visitors into just such 
a room as one would have anticipated from the out- 
side of the house, excepting that it was clean. But 
the few articles of furniture were in the last stages 
of dilapidation, if we except a low cot-bedstead with 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 139 


snowy coverings, all of which with perfect safety 
one could vouch were marked “ Mary Tazewell.” 
On this lay the little invalid, her scanty hair brushed 
back from a brow contracted by pain ; but the thin 
lips expanded into the ghost of a smile and the soft 
brown eyes lighted up at the sight of the two young 
ladies. 

“ Ah ! you are suffering to-day,” said Lin, kneel- 
ing on the floor beside the lounge. “ I am so sorry !” 
and she drew off her glove and laid her cool, soft 
hand on the pain-marked brow. 

“ Yes, ma’am ; my back was very bad all night. 
I can get no ease,” said the child, in a weak voice. 

“ You see,” said the mother, “ she cannot change 
her position at all ; she has to lie just so. A change 
would be such a relief.” 

Eva uncovered her basket : 

“ See here, Allie : Rachel made you this ;” and she 
displayed the pretty white cake, which just filled 
the space within. She felt repaid for her walk and 
ceased for the moment to wonder at “Aunt Mary’s 
tastes ” when she saw the light of gratitude which 
for the time quite drove out the expression of pain 
on the little worn face. 

“ Auntie is sick, or she would have come herself,” 
said Lin. 

“ ‘ Sick ’ ! Oh, I am so sorry !” and the sensitive 
blood flashed into the little cheeks. “Not much 
sick, I hope, miss ?” 


140 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Oh no ; only a slight cold.” 

“Allie thinks ’most more of Miss Tazewell than 
she does of me, her own mother, I believe, miss,” 
said the woman. 

“Ah, no, mother! not that; but, you know, she 
is so good to we all, and so many other people too. 
I don’t know what any of us would do if anything 
was to happen to her.” 

“ Yes, she is like an angel of mercy to poor peo- 
ple, certainly. — When she comes here, miss, she 
finds my poor child there, so low sometimes, and 
she just kneels down by her and prays to God to 
help her ; and she really prays like she thought he 
was just in the room by her, miss — she do, really. 
Now, some people halloo loud like he couldn’t hear 
without, but she just talks low and soft and easy, 
and it do seem like the blessing comes right down. 
Everybody feels better, and Allie, poor child ! seems 
to feel like the pain is not so bad. — Ain’t it so, 
Allie?” 

“ Indeed, it is, mother. If angels ever do come 
down here and get in human people, I think one 
lives in Miss Tazewell.” 

The tears stood bright in Lin’s eyes as she rose 
to go, and even Eva seemed softened by the tributes 
to “ auntie.” 

“ It would be something worth living for to have 
people speak so of one,” said Lin as she and Eva 
walked away. 




Lin and Eva meet their Mother 


Page 141 



THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 141 


“ Ah, well ! Maybe when we get old we will 
grow good. I intend, when I am fairly settled, to 
give so much every year to the poor. You know 
the Bible says, ‘ He that hath pity upon the poor 
lendeth unto the Lord ; and that which he hath 
given will he pay him again.’” 

This was said by Eva, and Lin was about to 
make a laughing comment upon her sister’s disin- 
terestedness when they were stopped by a woman 
who said in broken English, 

“ Mesdemoiselles, will you not donner assistance 
to one pauvre unfortunate?” 

The speaker certainly looked a suitable object for 
charity, and both girls turned kindly toward her. 

“ What can we do for you ?” asked Lin. 

At the sound of Lin’s voice the woman regarded 
her attentively, and then said, 

“ Kind young ladies, you see before you une 
femme miserable. Once I was like to you — young, 
beautiful — and had plenty of fine clothes. Now I 
grow old and de world forsake me, and I have not- 
ing — not so much as de bread to eat.” 

Such a strange fantastic figure was this that the 
young girls involuntarily exchanged glances and 
smiled. In a moment Lin’s generous nature re- 
proached her, and, taking out her purse, she said, 
“ We are very sorry for you, my poor woman ! 
You must let us help you and she pressed a coin 
upon her. 


142 UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 

To the girls’ surprise, the applicant put it back 
with a gesture of pride which sat strangely upon 
her, and said, 

“ I beg not for money ; I come to seek for my 
husband.” 

“ Is he here in Richmond ?” asked Lin. 

“ Yes, in dis Richmon’. Know you him ? I find 
not his house; I forget. Not here,” she added, 
looking around at the wretched street and pointing 
to the hill towering in sight upon which were built 
beautiful residences. “ Like dat.” 

Eva laughed at the droll idea. Linda clutched 
madly at her sister, but was too late to stop the 
question : 

“ What is his name !” 

“ George Dalreemple.” 

That was the woman’s answer, and then she looked 
in amazement at the ashen faces of the two young 
girls, who gazed at her without a word — stupefied, 
stunned, sick. Yes, it was true : this was their 
mother. They knew it in a moment as one knows 
when the horrible earthquake cleaves asunder the 
solid earth beneath his feet and he recognizes the 
yawning grave waiting for him. 

Look at these women as they stand there, the 
mother and her fair young daughters, that tender tie 
so redolent of beauty and bliss — those fair, graceful 
young ladies so refined and elegant in their dainty 
adornments, and that woman in her tawdry rags be- 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 143 


side them ! Ah ! it is cruel, cruel, cruel ! and they 
gaze helplessly upon one another, without the power 
to utter a word. 

At length the stranger, dismayed at the dismay 
she dimly recognized as her own work, laid her hand 
upon Lin’s arm and said, trembling, 

“ Qu’est-ce que c’est f What have I done ?” 

The girl shook off the grasp, exclaiming, with 
all the vehemence of her passionate nature, while 
her eyes blazed with the fire of a furious animal. 

“ ‘Done ’ ! Ha ! She asks what she has done ! 
Why, she has trampled out beneath her feet the joy 
of our lives. She has destroyed us, and now asks 
what she has done !” and then, the divine impulse 
within her wrestling with and conquering the tri- 
umphing devil, she cried out, “ God help us !” and 
burst into tears. 

“ Oh, pity me, yong ladies ! I know not my 
fault. Tell me of my husband; I will den go 
away.” 

“ He is dead !” 

Eva spoke, and her voice sounded hollow as the 
grave. * 

‘ Dead ’ ! Mort !” exclaimed the poor creature, 
wringing her hands.” “ Oh, say not dead. I work 
for dis day, I lif for it, and now dead and no word ! 
All my travel, my hunger and pain, for noting ! 
Dead !” and the great drops rained down her cheeks, 
prematurely furrowed as they were. 


144 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Neither of the poor woman’s auditors spoke a 
word ; both only gazed at her as at some horror. 

“ Pity me ! pity me !” she cried, stretching out 
her poverty-stricken hands toward the two fair 
girls. “ I come from Paris to seek my husband, 
and il est mort ! He is dead !” 

“ When did you come ?” asked Eva, with a sort 
of choke in her voice, as when one’s throat is dry 
and parched with fever. 

“ I have arrive but now — de cars. I sell all my 
clothes for de passage. I eat noting. I say I will 
have plenty when I have come to my husband ; and 
he is dead. Mon Dieu ! II est mort /” 

This refrain seemed to contain all her sorrow. 
Suddenly looking up, she exclaimed, 

“ De fader ! Where is he ? He luf me not, but 
for de son he will be good.” 

“ He is dead too.” 

Eva spoke this time also, and in her tone there 
was an accent of revenge and triumph. 

“ Dead too ! All dead — de little children, de 
babies ! Enfants ! Ah ! speak not ; I see. I can- 
not bear all tings. Tell me not ; I know. All die !” 
and she sunk into a sort of stupid trance of grief 
upon the steps of a deserted house in front of which 
they stood. 

Then the sisters turned to each other : “ What 
are we to do ?” Their eyes more than their voices 
spoke. One minute they stood thus, and then a 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 145 


mighty energy seemed to seize upon Eva. She 
turned desperately to flee, dragging Lin after her. 

Suddenly Lin waked from the stupor into which 
she had fallen, and, disengaging herself from the 
grasp of her sister, said with the calmness of des- 
peration, 

“ What are you doing, Eva ? What are you do- 
ing ? That is our mother ; we cannot leave her.” 

“ Hush, Lin ! For the sake of mercy, hush ! I 
will die if you say such a thing. Take her with 
us? That thing? Horrible!” 

“ God help us !” cried Lin, the agony of her soul 
going forth on the wings of the cry and then re- 
bounding to settle like a pall upon her heart. 

“Come; let us go. Don't stop; she is coming 
toward us,” entreated Eva. “ Lin, would you ruin 
my prospects? Do you not know that her pres- 
ence changes my whole life ? Come, Lin ! Oh, 
come !” 

“ I cannot, Eva ; I cannot go and leave our moth- 
er to die in the streets. Besides, do you not know 
she will tell her frightful story to the next person 
she meets?” 

This consideration had the effect of staying Eva's 
flight, and she turned to meet the woman, who had 
again come up by their side. 

The second look at this new-found relation did 
not much mend matters. The tears she had shed 
had trickled through the rouge upon her cheeks and 
10 


146 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


rolled in colored drops upon her soiled attire, mak- 
ing stripes of alternate white and red upon her hol- 
low face. 

“ Come this way ; we want to speak to you,” said 
Eva, looking anxiously round to see that no one 
heard her, and then darting down a dark alley, fol- 
lowed by Lin and the woman. 

Halfway down they stood breathless, looking in 
each other’s faces. Suddenly the woman approached 
them closely, peering into their eyes. 

“ Qu’est-ce que c’est f Who are you ? Once I was 
si jeune, si jolie , like you — wid hair so like dis ;” 
and she would have laid her hand upon the shining 
locks, but the dainty Eva shrank away. “ Ah, je 
vois ! You do not like me touch you? Yet I was 
once charmante so as you. All men say, ‘How 
lofely !’ And now !” and she spread out her hands 
before her with a gesture of deep despair. 

Eva looked away as if to hide the beauty which 
might betray her. The woman turned to Lin, who 
had resumed her attitude of statue-like repose as a 
covering to her despair. 

“And you — you seem — I see you at somewhere. 
Do I see you somewhere ?” 

“I do not remember,” said Lin, and her voice 
was hoarse and dry. 

“ I haf enfants at somewhere, but dey is tres pe- 
tites. Knew you some enfants Dalreemple ! Be dey 
mortes aussi f” 


THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER. 147 


Before Lin could answer, Eva dragged her aside, 
and, saying to the woman, “I must speak to my 
sister. We will help you; only wait.” 

“ What are you going to do ?” she asked, almost 
fiercely. 

“ There is but the one thing I can see, and that 
is terrible — take her home with us.” 

“ ‘ Home with us ’ ! Never !” exclaimed Eva. 
“ Grandpapa must not know it; he would think 
he ought to tell Dr. Harrison, and then my life is 
changed.” 

“ You think only of yourself,” said Lin, wearily. 
“ We must do what is right, not what is pleasant. 
And, besides, grandpa must know it. Do you sup- 
pose she is going to walk about the streets telling 
her story to every one without its reaching his ears ?” 

“ But she must not walk about the streets ; she 
must not be seen.” 

“ I do not very well see how it can be helped,” 
said Lin. 

“ She must go away from here. Oh, Lin, save 
me and take her away !” 

Lin only looked her amazement at the propo- 
sition, and Eva went on : 

“ Lin, I have money : grandpa gave me a hun- 
dred dollars yesterday. It is here. Only take her 
away for a time. Only think, Lin, of the disgrace 
we bring upon the whole house ! Only think of 
grandma, of Harry, Lyle — all !” 


148 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KN1FE. 


Lin buried her face in her hands ; this was the 
great source of suffering to her unselfish nature — 
to bring such grief into a house which had be- 
friended their orphanage; for well she knew it 
would be a bitter mortification to the Wallaces. 

Eva saw her advantage, and at once proceeded to 
follow it up : 

“ Lin, I am resolved this shall never be. I pro- 
pose that you shall take her away for a while 
because you are so much stronger, less sensitive 
than I ; but if you will not, I am ready to do my 
duty. Go she must, and we cannot, as you say, 
send her away alone.” 

How well Eva knew her sister ! There had never 
been a time in their whole lives when, if there was 
a sacrifice to be made by one of the two, Lin had 
not been the one to make it. 

But before Lin thus offered herself up on this 
altar she turned to look at her for whom it was to 
be done. Weariness had overtaken her ; even as she 
watched the two girls she had sunk upon the door- 
step, and now slept. Her bonnet, with its faded 
flowers, had fallen back, and the scanty hair strag- 
gled about her face, down which the tears had 
streaked their course and striped it red and white. 
One hand clutched the bundle which doubtless con- 
tained all she had in the world, and her foot, soiled 
with the dust of travel, protruded from beneath her 
skirts. 


the return of THE WANDERER. 149 


Eva followed Lin’s glance, and her face expressed 
the utmost disgust. 

“ Is anything more terrible ?” she said. “ What 
have we done that such a misfortune should come 
to us ? She must never be seen. I will take her 
away and she burst into a passion of tears. 

“ You are right/’ said Lin, hoarsely; “ she must 
never be seen. They shall not be disgraced by us. 
And then our father’s honored memory ! Only think 
of that as his — ” 

Lin finished with a laugh more distressing to hear 
than a groan would have been. 

“What is to be done?” said Eva, still weeping 
convulsively. “ Where shall I take her!” 

“ You !” exclaimed Lin, as if she had never even 
heard the proposition. “ Oh no ; of course I will 
be the one. It is always so.” 

“ You speak,” retorted Eva, “as if the picking 
up of our mother in the street and running off with 
her was a daily pleasure. No ! I am the oldest ; 
I will go and then she glanced furtively at her 
sister and trembled with fear while Lin hesitated 
before she replied. But she knew her fate and was 
taking leave of the associations of a lifetime — the 
loving old grandparents, Aunt Mary, Maxy and 
— Harry ! Yes, there her thoughts lingered long- 
est, and the true, staunch young heart just coming to 
a sense of its full powers was taking its passionate 
farewell of its romance. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

LIN DISAPPEARS. 

E VA came home alone at dinner-time. If she 
looked pale, no one remarked it. She had 
parted with Lin on the street, she said, and nothing 
more. We inferred that Lin was dining with Aunt 
Mary, and Harry grumbled impatiently over her ab- 
sence, as he always did, and said he would call for 
her and bring her home to tea ; and he took his 
hat and went out. As he opened the front door he 
found a letter lying upon the step, and returned 
with it, looking curiously at the superscription. 

" Father,” he said, handing the letter to the 
judge, “ this is strange — a letter to you lying in the 
door, directed in Lin’s handwriting.” 

The old gentleman took it, and looked wonder- 
ingly, but with no shadow of apprehension, at the 
bulky missive, and then opened it. There was one 
for Harry within. 

No words can describe the scene which followed ; 
I despair of giving the faintest idea of it. Dearly 
as we all loved the child, I never knew how strong 

150 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


151 


a hold she had upon our affection. In the midst 
of the grief and dismay Eva fainted, and when recov- 
ered fell into such paroxysms of grief as would 
have been alarming had we not all been absorbed 
in our sorrow for the strange catastrophe which had 
befallen our Lin. 

I copy her letter to Judge Wallace : 

“Dear, Darling Grandpa: What will you 
say when you read this letter and know that your 
little Lin has been obliged to go away from you 
for a long time perhaps ? I can hardly write this 
for crying. I am not the least a bad girl, grandpa, 
and I don’t just see how I am to stand it all, but I 
suppose God, who has sent this trial, will help me 
to bear it. That is what Aunt Mary and Maxy 
would say. You have all been so sweet to me that 
I have never known anything about it from my own 
experience. But oh, dear grandpa, how can I say 
farewell to you and Harry, grandma, Maxy, Eva, 
and all ? Such visions of my past life rise up before 
me as almost break my heart, and I cannot write 
about it. The horrible thought comes to me, too, 
that you may all misunderstand and think I am 
very wicked ; but, grandpa, you must all believe in 
me and know that your little Lin never found it so 
hard to do what she thought was right in her life 
before. And yet I cannot explain ; only a terrible 
misfortune has happened. If I do not go away, it 


152 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


will fall upon all of you ; but if I go, I alone will 
be hurt by it. 

“ I have not time to write any more, grandpa, 
except to say ‘ Good-bye/ with my dearest love to 
all around you. God may let me come back to you 
sooner than I think ; if he don’t, I will die. 

“ Remember, grandpa, grandma and all, believe 
I have not been a bad child, and go away only be- 
cause it is right. God bless you all. 

“ Your loving and unhappy 

“ Lin. 

“ P. S. Please don’t try to find me or to let any- 
body know about this, only say I have gone away, 
and everybody will think you know where. And 
oh, grandpa, if you love me, don’t put anything 
about me in the papers. I will write to you 
again. L.” 

This letter was so blotted with tears, that we 
could hardly read it. No one saw Harry’s, but he 
cried like a child over it. 

And now Eva’s state demanded our anxious care. 
She was really ill for days, and so nervous that we 
dared not mention Lin before her. 

Everything that could be done was done without 
giving publicity to the affair. Judge Wallace very 
quietly employed the police to look around the city 
and see if Lin was still there. Harry we hardly 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


153 


saw ; lie was oat all the time. After the first few 
days his expression of wild, restless anxiety gave 
place to a settled weariness and dejection very pain- 
ful to see upon his young face. Mrs. Wallace 
grieved as for the death of a young child. 

Aunt Mary was the light and comfort of all. 
Her unwavering trust in God was our strength also. 

“ Lin,” she said, “ is a Christian, and as such is 
in the divine keeping. She thinks she is right ; and 
even if this is an error of judgment, God will over- 
rule it for her good.” 

Neither Harry nor Judge Wallace could listen to 
this doctrine or see how any good could come out 
of such a dire mistake. But still Aunt Mary tran- 
quilized even them ; the touch of her hand was mes- 
meric, I think. 

But, after all, those were dreadful days — days 
which even now, after the lapse of years, it is hard 
to think and to write about. There was a shadow 
over the house which nothing but the restoration of 
our dear child could lift. Her promise to write 
again was all we lived upon, and for weeks we had 
to wait in suspense before the letter came. The 
police failed to discover any trace of a lady answer- 
ing her description. 

Once our hope was raised. An acquaintance of 
Judge Wallace met him one day on the street and 
said to him, “ Judge, is not one of those little Dai- 
ry mple girls in Lynchburg ?” 


154 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Why do you ask ?” said the judge as composedly 
as he could. 

u Why, I was there the other day, and met on the 
street a young lady who was amazingly like the 
youngest of your proteg&es, except that she was paler 
and thinner. I was so struck by the resemblance 
that I was just on the point of speaking to her, but 
she was gone before I had a chance to do so.” 

This seemed a clue, and off for Lynchburg started 
Harry and the judge. We waited with the most 
intense anxiety for news of them, but their search 
was in vain. 

When Eva’s health became improved, we hoped 
to be able to get some clue from her by which to 
trace the fugitive, but we had to approach the sub- 
ject with the greatest precaution, as she was over- 
whelmed with distress whenever she spoke of Lin, 
and all we could gather was that when they parted 
Lin gave no intimation of her intention. 

I suppose the Wallaces were naturally unsuspi- 
cious people ; free from guile themselves, they fancied 
others also were free. Certainly, there was no sus- 
picion of Eva’s complicity in the matter, and she 
was an object of the greatest tenderness on account 
of her evident affliction. 

Mrs. Gray was questioned, but could tell only 
that Lin returned alone to her house with writing- 
materials. She sat in Allie’s room and wrote some 
letters, crying all the time, but they did not like to 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


155 


ask her what was the matter ; and when she went 
away, she kissed Allie and told her there were sorer 
trials than hers in this world. 

It seems strange now, in view of all the develop- 
ments, that our conjectures never hit upon the truth ; 
but for years the death of George Dalrymple’s wife 
had been so undoubted, we thought, that we never 
connected her with the matter. Judge Wallace in- 
sisted that Lin’s morbid conscientiousness about what 
she called mixing her bad blood with ours had led 
her thus insanely to remove herself from the temp- 
tation of Harry’s importunities, but this did not 
seem to be a very plausible solution. To her honor 
be it recorded, no one ever thought of suspecting the 
simple, high-toned girl of any wrong. 

Miss Betsey did purse up her lips one day and 
Say ’ 

“ Bad blood will show itself, cousin.” 

This was to Miss Mary Tazewell and myself, and 
before even my hot speech could find vent in Lin’s 
defence the trembling voice of Miss Mary said, 

“ Betsey, it behooves you and me to be silent and 
not dare throw a stone to injure that spotless child. 
I fear an imprudent conversation which she over- 
heard at my door was the first page in this tragedy 
and then she clasped her hands and raised her eyes, 
and ejaculated with genuine fervor, “God in his 
mercy and love have her in his keeping and bring 
her out of this furnace purified and cleansed !” 


156 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE . 


When Lin’s promised letter came, it was post- 
marked “ Richmond/’ and gave no clue within as 
to her whereabouts. This is the letter : 

“ Dear Ones All : It is hard to believe I have 
been away from you only three weeks; it seems 
a lifetime. I don’t believe in a thousand years I 
would ever get accustomed to doing without you. 
You must not make yourselves miserable about your 
poor little Lin : it will all come right after a while, 
maybe ; and if it doesn’t, we must try to be together 
in heaven. I am getting very tired, anyhow, of 
living, we are subject to such terrible trials here. 

“ It seems strange I should have a secret to keep, 
doesn’t it, when you all used to laugh at me so be- 
cause I had to tell everything ? But that seems a 
long, long time ago. 

“ I cannot write any more ; it almost kills me, 
and I have nothing to say except that I am well. 
Sometimes I think maybe there might have been 
some other way of arranging matters without my 
going away ; but there is not any use regretting 
now. 

“ God bless you all ! 

“ Your own loving 
“Lin.” 

That was all — Rot a clue by which to trace her 
except the city postmark. 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


157 


Again Harry spent his time on the streets; 
again his face took that eager, wistful look, and 
again the settled weariness took its place, for Lin 
was not found. 

Dr. Harrison had expected to visit Eva once be- 
fore the time appointed for her marriage ; for some 
reason he did not come, but wrote that he hoped that 
the day might be named for an earlier instead of a 
later time if possible, and so May was decided upon. 
We all fondly hoped that our absent one would find 
her way back before that time, as it would be but a 
gloomy affair without her. 

Eva did not recover from the shock at all, and we 
all silently wondered ; we had not given her credit 
for such devotion to Lin. She was a poor pale flow- 
er now, and seemed also to have lost all interest in 
her trousseau, positively declining to add anything 
unnecessary. Yet when Judge Wallace, in his kind- 
ness fearing she was denying herself some grat- 
ification on account of the expense, offered her a 
considerable sum of money, she took it almost 
eagerly ; and when she caught a somewhat puzzled 
expression upon his face, she said with a little em- 
barrassed laugh and blush, 

“ You don’t know, grandpa, how glad I am to 
get this. I do not care to spend it on any mere 
finery, but it will give me a full purse. I suppose 
every girl feels badly about going penniless to her 
husband.” 


158 


UNDER THE PRTJNING-KNIFE. 


“ My darling child,” said the old man, kissing 
her, “ did you imagine I would allow that ? Spend 
your money, dear ; there is more where that came 
from.” 

So passed the snows of winter, the blasts of March 
and April with her showers, and no news came of 
our lost-one except occasional short notes postmarked 
“ Richmond ” and telling nothing but that she was 
well ; and, though she did not say so, there was 
about her letters a growing tone of despondency 
which revealed to us, her anxious waiting friends, 
that she was very unhappy. 

It was early in April, though, that poor Harry 
came home with a long letter from Lin telling him 
that the mystery that had taken her from us must 
separate them, and, while she expressed for him far 
more passionate devotion than she had ever seemed 
to feel in the bright early days of their love, she 
took leave of him in terms which forced us to be- 
lieve she was in earnest. 

Harry read me a portion of this letter, crying 
like a child. 

“ What will you do?” I asked. 

“ ‘ Do* ?” he said. “ I can do no more than I have 
done. Of course all this is mere folly unless she 
were to tell me she no longer loves me. There is 
nothing which can break our engagement. Oh, the 
mystery of these letters !” he added, looking at the 
postmark. “ Do you think she is in the city ?” 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


159 


“ No ; she cannot be. But I am convinced that 
in the city there is some one who knows her where- 
abouts, if I could only find out who it is ?” 

As the time drew near for Eva’s marriage increas- 
ing gloom settled upon us all. It seemed so terrible, 
the idea of going on with the plans of the family 
just as if this shadow did not rest upon us. But 
Eva insisted that it was best everything should go 
forward, and she seemed so restless, so altered in 
spirits, that it was decided the change of scene 
and circumstances might do her good by diverting 
her mind from our strange affliction. 

We were astonished, when the time for Dr. Har- 
rison’s arrival came round, to find that Eva had not 
told him of Lin’s disappearance, and she entreated 
Judge Wallace that it might not be done. 

“ Only allow him to infer that she is away on a 
visit,” she pleaded. 

But Judge Wallace was immovable. There should 
be no concealments from Dr. Harrison, he was de- 
termined, and he could not forbear expressing his 
astonishment that Eva should not have sought for 
consolation at the hands of her future husband, as 
seemed so natural. 

“ Oh no !” she said ; “ I feel as if I were dis- 
graced in some way by Lin’s going away.” 

“ Disgrace, my dear,” said the judge, with a 
tone of grave reproof, “ should in your thoughts 
never be coupled with your sister’s name. That 


160 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


she has erred in leaving us in the way she has I 
freely admit, as there is no circumstance which could 
justify it ; but it is an error of judgment, and I 
feel the most entire confidence that when this sad 
mystery is brought to light my little Lin will be 
found all right as to heart, though her head is 
wrong.” 

Eva’s only resource was tears, but, though the 
old gentleman kissed and petted her, the tears did 
not change his determination. Then she dried her 
eyes and seemed suddenly to agree with him, won- 
dering that she should ever have thought otherwise, 
but claimed her right to tell the whole story, which 
was, of course, conceded. 

The groom came at the appointed time, but, as 
he had been written to that the marriage would be 
but a private affair, he brought with him none of 
his friends. 

We all wondered to see how the usually self-con- 
trolled Eva was broken by late events ; the least 
thing startled her, and she would faint on the small- 
est occasion. She was but a pale-looking bride, to 
be sure, and Dr. Harrison was shocked to see her, 
particularly as she showed the most unaccountable 
agitation at meeting him. She revived somewhat 
when the elegant gifts from his friends were pre- 
sented, and showed a little of her old spirit as she 
fastened in her bosom and in her ears the lovely 
pearls which were his choice, laid upon her white 


LIN DISAPPEARS. 


161 


neck the delicate clusters and stood before the glass 
to see if they were becoming. 

Oddi}" enough, perhaps — though I never suspect- 
ed Eva of the enormity of being privy to our poor 
Lin’s strange disappearance — I could not feel so 
cordially toward her as I wanted to do. I felt, 
somehow, as if she were bearing all the sunshine 
of life and leaving to our darling all the clouds. 

It was a sad affair altogether — that wedding. 
Eva and the doctor were married at home, with 
only a few friends present. Eva, in her white dra- 
peries, seemed something too fair for earth. Lyle 
Wallace said he involuntarily looked for the wings 
to appear upon her shoulders. The poor girl trem- 
bled so violently during the ceremony that Dr. Har- 
rison had to change the position of his arm and 
throw it around her to hold her up ; but when it 
was all over, she revived, and was in the most ex- 
cited spirits during the whole evening, laughing and 
talking with a deep flush upon her cheeks very dif- 
ferent from the extreme pallor which had been so 
striking before. 

During all this time poor Harry wandered about 
like a lost spirit ; no one but myself, I think, saw 
him leave the room hastily as the bridal-party en- 
tered it. He did not witness the ceremony, though 
he came afterward and kissed Eva, preserving an 
outward composure with a face which showed the 
consuming fires beneath his cold exterior. 

11 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 

I T suddenly occurred to me to-day that it would 
be a relief to the tedium of my life to keep a 
record of these strange things which are happening 
to me. I can make it a link between me and home. 
I will say it is a letter to Maxy — dear Maxy ! — 
and then I will hope that the time will come — 
maybe far away in the future — when she will see it. 
Perhaps I may be dead, and they will all read with 
blinding tears the sad, strange story. Or it may 
be that God will let me go home again, and I know 
I will not want to talk about this unhappy time ; 
so I will just get out my blank-book and hand it 
over to them, and one at a time they can read it. 
So I will begin : 

My dear Maxy : Your loving Lin is going to 
write down everything as it occurs, so that you will 
know all about the time which passed so sadly away 
from you all. 

We — Eva and myself — met our mother, Maxy — 
162 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


163 


such a strange, dreadful mother that we could not 
let any one else see her or even know of her exist- 
ence. I really don’t remember a great deal about 
the meeting. I felt all the time conscious that 
something dreadful had happened to me, almost as 
if some one had dealt my head and my heart a ter- 
rible blow when she said, 

“ Know you no Dalreemple here ? George Dal- 
reemple is my husband.” 

It just seemed as if some one had killed me, and 
as if T heard everything else from my grave. 

Then I think Eva proposed taking her away, but 
I do not suppose she meant it, though, of course, I 
am not sure. 

Well, I was the one, and Eva said she would 
watch — the woman while I went to Mrs. Gray’s 
to write my letters ; for one thing I was positive 
about : I would not go aw T ay without a word, as Eva 
wished ; so I wrote to grandpa and Harry. 

My poor Harry ! I wonder what he does with- 
out me ? I could never, though, marry him with 
this burden hanging to me. 

Well, after my letters were written I came back, 
and, though it had been two hours at least, there 
she lay asleep still in the door of the vacant house 
with Eva standing a little way off watching her. 
Eva told me she had found that a canal-boat left 
in a few hours, going up through the country, and 
she thought we had better go on that. I do not 


164 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNIFE. 


remember that I made any remonstrance. I did not 
care where I w r ent ; all places were alike to me if 
1 had to leave everybody I cared for and go away 
with — her. I remember thinking how like it was 
to the punishment which long, long ago used to be 
awarded to murderers — to have the dead body of 
their victim bound to them and go about with the 
decaying horror always present. But I was not a 
murderer, and why should I have this living mon- 
ster tied to me ? Oh, it was, and is, too terrible ! 

Well, we went and waked our mother — we, her 
daughters — and both of us turned away when she 
woke up, and I said, 

“ Oh, Eva, it is no use ! I can’t go with her.” 

But of course I had to go. I do not know how 
we got her on the boat, but we did ; and then, as it 
would not start for some time, Eva went off and 
bought a plain bonnet and cloak, which covered all 
her rags. As first she declared she w r ould not put 
them on, but she seemed to stand a little in awe of 
us, and we got her to wash her face and dress her- 
self decently. And oh, then, for the first time, I 
could see how she could ever have looked like Eva. 
But such a likeness ! I saw that Eva observed it 
also, and I think she must have hated her own face. 
I know it is not right to speak in this way of my 
mother, but how can I honor her ? God cannot ex- 
pect it. Oh, how could my father ever have given 
his children such a mother? 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


165 


The parting between Eva and myself was terrible ; 
I just felt as if I were going off into a howling wilder- 
ness and taking my worst misery with me. I think 
she was in a sort of bewilderment all the time too, 
and as I sat there crying so bitterly after the boat 
started I felt some one put a hand upon me, and 
turned to find her standing there looking at me — 
oh, so curiously ! As I raised my head she said, 

“ Qu’est-ce que c’est f Who are you ? What for 
do you take me away? What for give me dese 
ogly — what you call it ? — habits f What for you 
cry so? You is Dalreemple — you is Dalreemple ! 
Your eyes look like mon pauvre man’s, mon George.” 

I turned away and could not tell her I was her 
child. 

“An’ de oder one, trU jolie — so like de days of 
my youth Who is she ? Oh, lady, tell me. Why 
take you me away ?” 

“ Because I am obliged to,” I said, sullenly, 
angrily. 

“ ‘ Obliged 9 ! Who make you ?” 

“ My conscience. Do you know what that is ?” 

I spoke so violently that I felt shocked at myself, 
and in the same breath cried out, as I buried my 
head in my hands, 

“ Oh, forgive me !” 

“ Forgive you ! Ma pauvre petite ! What for- 
give? You do noting. I grieve for you. I me 
too have be miserable. Why weep you? Why 


166 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


go you away from your sister if you wish it not ? 
Oh, it is all a mysteree. I no understand it.” 

Still I could not enlighten her. I felt as if it 
would make some dreadful change in my life, bind- 
ing me to her, if I told of the claim she had upon 
me; so I only sat silent with my face averted, and 
she went on : 

“ Want you money? Helas ! I have not any. I 
have noting eat to-day.” 

This roused me, gave me something tangible to do, 
released me from her curious questions. I called 
the chambermaid and told her to get us something 
to eat, as my companion had been traveling and had 
had no opportunity of getting anything. We were 
the only female passengers, and the few men — rough 
farmers returning to their homes — were on deck or 
in the farther cabin, so we had the room pretty 
much to ourselves. 

When the woman brought in a plate of coarse, 
unpalatable food, which my mother ate ravenously, 
even I, hard as I was, pitied her when I saw how 
hungry she was and thought of how she must have 
sutfered — uncomplainingly, too. As to myself, I 
could not have swallowed the rarest dainties from 
the imperial Selim’s feast. I was realizing in the 
most dreadful fullness my situation. And now 
what was to be done? I, who had never been 
obliged to think for myself, was obliged to think 
vigorously not only for myself, but for another. I 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY . 167 

had plenty of money, as Eva had added the contents 
of her purse to mine. 

While I was considering vaguely these things 
with my burden seated opposite to me, the chamber- 
maid came up, and, speaking to her, she said, 

“ Madame, how far will you go ? The bell rings 
for the passengers to buy their tickets.” 

“ ‘ Buy y ? Oh, I have no money,” said she ; but 
I interrupted her : 

“ I will pay. — What is the fare ?” 

“ ‘ Fare ? !” and the woman laughed. u That de- 
pends, miss, on how far you go. You can go all the 
way to Lynchburg, for — ” She named some sum ; I 
do not know what. I took out my purse and paid 
it, and so, because she mentioned Lynchburg, our 
course was decided upon. 

Those weary hours ! How they dragged ! Night 
came on, and still I sat there. There was a bustle 
in the cabin ; the uncleanly preparations were made 
for the evening meal, to which we were invited. I 
could not eat, but my companion did, though not so 
ravenously as she had eaten before. Her appetite 
was satisfied. I was glad when she consented to 
occupy one of the little berths and go to sleep, as it 
released me from the continual questioning glance 
of her pale blue eyes, which said, even without any 
assistance from her broken language, 

“ Qu’est-ce que c’estf Who are you, with George 
Dalreemple’s eyes ? Why do you cry ?” 


168 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


It was so strange to me to be sitting up there all 
alone during the early hours of that night, wakeful 
and miserable. I had heard so often of persons 
lying awake all night, and it seemed so strange how 
they could do it; but now I was getting into that sort 
of troubled life myself. “ Getting” ! I was already 
in it. No one — grandpa, grandma, Aunt Mary nor 
any of the old experienced people I could think of 
— had ever had such trouble as mine ; none of them 
had ever been obliged to run away with a dreadful 
French mother whom they could not love. I will not 
deny that in the midst of my real wretchedness a 
little inward feeling of satisfaction mingled itself at 
the thought of my greater misery, and I did feel 
provoked with myself a little when I felt sleep de- 
manding its usual attention. 

I sat up a good while after this, but had to sub- 
mit to imperious Nature, and dreamed all night of 
home and Harry, and waked up with a start and 
crying aloud at the thought of what must have been 
their anxiety about me all that long night. I think 
the waking up in trouble is worse than anything 
else — it all rushes on one with such terrible force — 
and I felt more than ever that I had no strength to 
go through with the task I had undertaken. Then 
I thought of Aunt Mary’s voice, and could hear 
her saying, “ ‘ My grace is sufficient for thee. My 
strength is made perfect in weakness ” and I re- 
membered that in my sullen, angry grief I had not 


A CHAPTER OF LIN'S STORY. 


169 


even said ray prayers last night, though I am a pro- 
fessing Christian. No wonder I had been so miser- 
able; no wonder this trial had been permitted to 
come upon me, who had been so ungrateful for the 
blessings of my life ; and then — horrid thing that I 
am ! — it occurred to me, “ Why should I have to 
bear so much more than Eva, who is certainly not 
more grateful than I am ?” " Whom the Lord lov- 
eth he chasteneth.” I remember Aunt Mary’s say- 
ing once that it was just like a loving, judicious 
father punishing his children because he loved 
them. That must be it. I am, I hope, God’s child, 
and he is punishing me for my ingratitude ; but oh, 
it is so hard ! I could bear anything else better than 
this. I cannot, I will not, stand it ! Oh, if God 
would only take the trouble away, I would promise 
never to do wrong again. I am so wicked ! Even 
now I am wishing that this strange, dreadful mother 
would die and leave me at liberty ; and that is mur- 
der. What shall I do ? I have no power to resist 
these terrible wishes which take possession of me ; 
and then the worst of all is I am willing that to re- 
lieve myself she should be lost for ever. God for- 
give me ! Oh, if he will only take away these dread- 
ful thoughts, I will try and do my duty to her. 

I thought all this that first morning on the canal- 
boat, and got into such a state of excitement and 
agony that I suppose I must have cried aloud, for 
all at once my mother’s voice sounded by me : 


170 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Qu’est-ce que c’est f What is de matter ? Who 
are you ?” 

I put out my hand and pushed her from me, 
and then, frightened at my wickedness, overcome 
by the terrible thought that I had almost struck my 
own mother, I cried out, without knowing what I 
said, 

“ Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me !” 

“ What say you ? What say you ? Oh, do you 
call me ‘ moder ’ ? Is it so ? Yes, it must be. You 
are George Dalreemple’s child. Ah, mon Dieu ! [ 
see my child ! I deserve it not. God is good ! I 
have been one wicked woman ;” and before I had 
the power to prevent it she threw herself upon me 
and kissed me with dreadful fondness. 

To save my life I could not help shrinking away. 
She felt it, and, loosing me from her embrace, sank 
into a chair : 

“ Ah ! mon enfant hate me ! Helas ! let me die ! 
I have no one to love me !” 

“Why did you come back?” I said, sternly. 
“We were all so happy without you, and now I am 
wretched.” 

“ I will go away again,” she said, very meekly, 
wiping her eyes and speaking in her broken English, 
“ if you will tell me where to go to. I have no 
money ; I have no friends. I have none but my 
child, and she hate me.” 

I bowed my head in my hands; I could feel 


A CHAPTER OF LIN'S STORY. 


171 


more like a Christian when I did not see the dread- 
ful reality. 

“ No, mother/’ I said, with a mighty effort to do 
what was right ; “ it is my duty to take care of you. 
God will help me to do what is right, but you must 
give me time to — to get used to it. We thought you 
were dead.” 

“And you were glad?” she asked. 

For the life of me I could not say a word. 

“ And you were glad !” she repeated, with touch- 
ing earnestness. 

“ Until very lately I — we — never knew anything 
about it,” I said. “We thought you had died in 
Paris, when my father came home without you.” 

I suppose I reproached her by my tone, for she 
said, 

“Ah, mon enfant ! forgive me ; I was thoughtless. 
You American peoples were so cold — so — I know 
not what, but so different from my own peoples. 
I was so wretched in America ! I was so young ! 
I thought not of anything but the life I had left in 
Paris ; only to return there. Your fader was good 
to me. I go back.” 

“ Yes,” I said, bitterly, “ and left your children — 
you, our mother !” 

She hung her head : 

“ It is true. I had no moder in my heart, but it 
come after. When I have been alone and poor and 
sick, I have long so for my little ones.” 


172 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNIFE. 


“And you went away from my poor father, who 
loved you so much,” I said, feeling bitter hatred in 
my heart for her own confession of utter selfish- 
ness. 

“Ah ! but, mon enfant , you know not how weari- 
some it was to be scold all de time. Pity me ! 
There were so many that praise me, and George 
alone blame me. Should I not in my unwisdom 
seek those again who gave de good word? I 
thought not of de time when beauty would go and 
the world forsake. I come back penitent, and, helus ! 
my husband is dead and my children hate deir 
moder ! Ah, me miserable !” 

“ Every word you say,” I said, “ makes it worse. 
Where did you go when you left my father ?” 

“ I mean not to go away. Ah ! it is one long, 
bad story. Dere was one in Paris who persuade me 
to go to Italy. George would not go ; he like not 
de peoples I like. He say no, he go not; den I 
leave him, and Marie — mon amie — paint de beauti- 
ful journey, and I go. I return ; George is no- 
where. I look for him ; I write to him. I know 
not for long years that Marie tear my letters. She 
die three year ago, and tell me all. She love me 
not all de time, but more than all she love not 
George ‘because of his great pride. He love not I 
should be wid her, and so, to revenge her on him, 
she take me away and den for fear burn my let- 
ters.” 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


173 


" What have you done all these years ?” I said. 

“ Oh, many ting,” she answered, raising her 
hands. “ I sew, I embroider, I dress de hair, I 
wait on de lady. Sometimes I starve. When Marie 
tell me all, my hope was to come to America and 
find my husband ; for dis I work, for dis I starve. 
I come, and he is dead and she cried and wrung 
her hands. 

I was as hard as a stone ; I remembered only that 
our mother had deserted us when we were babies — 
had left my father, who had died of grief, had 
caused the death of my grandfather, and now, to 
crown all, had returned and robbed me of my 
happy home. I hated her, though I hated myself 
for it. 

Better thoughts came afterward when I knelt 
down to say my prayers ; I suppose God put them 
there when I asked him to help me to do my duty, 
but he did not make it easy to me. 

That was a dreadful journey, but it came to an 
end at last, and we landed in Lynchburg. Instinct, 
I suppose, made me avoid the large hotels, and we 
got rooms in a little strange place where the people 
were so different from any I had ever been thrown 
with. I could not stand it, and determined that as 
soon as I could get some clothing for my mother 
and myself I would leave Lynchburg and go to 
Baltimore, where after a while Eva would be ; and 
then, I believed, all would be right. 


174 


UNDER THE PR UN1NG-KNIFE. 


I had only a few clothes, which Eva had secretly 
brought from home before I left Richmond, and 
my mother had nothing. How it was all done I do 
not know ; I only know that everything was hard 
because I carried a heavy heart in my bosom and 
went about my duties with lagging footsteps and 
utter weariness. The trial became harder to bear 
every day, and yet often I felt tempted to run away 
from my self-appointed task, and, leaving my mother 
to her fate, to return to my happy home and to 
Harry, for whose tenderness I yearned with a love 
I had never before been conscious of possessing. 
But then the cowardice of running away from a 
trouble, of forsaking a duty ! the impossibility of 
telling my dreadful story ! the impossibility of giv- 
ing Harry a wife with such a dreadful mother ! 

Oh, those days of sullen anger when I used to 
sit there in that room with that mother opposite to 
me, neither of us speaking a word for hours, but 
she never taking her eyes off me ! 

A change came after a while. We had been in 
Lynchburg about three or four weeks, when, feeling 
as if I should go mad if I did not get rid of those 
eyes, I put on my hat and cloak, and, covering my 
face with a veil, dashed out into the street for a 
walk. I did not know nor care where I went ; one 
street was the same as another to me, since there 
were none of them in which I could drop and leave 
my misery. 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


175 


Suddenly, as I turned a corner, I ran against a 
man, and, both starting back — he with an apology 
— I encountered the familiar face of Mr. Lewis, 
from Richmond. I saw at once that he recognized 
me. I was determined not to acknowledge my 
identity ; so, when he started forward, exclaiming 
wonderingly, “Why, Miss Dalrymple ! is it possi- 
ble?” I only drew back and bowed without speak- 
ing, leaving him to infer that he was mistaken. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, deceived for the 
instant by my refusal to acknowledge his acquaint- 
ance ; but as I turned the next corner I looked 
back, and I saw him standing where I had left him, 
and gazing after me. 

My heart beat so violently after this encounter that 
I could hardly get home, and such was the perversity 
of the temper I was in that one moment I felt as 
if I must fly to the ends of the earth rather than be 
found, and the next my heart bounded at the idea 
that Mr. Lewis would tell grandpa and Harry and 
my wanderings would come to an end. But when 
I looked at my companion, I shrank with a greater 
horror than ever from being caught and from hav- 
ing to acknowledge my obnoxious relative. 

A night of thought followed this adventure, and 
before the light dawned I had determined to leave 
Lynchburg before Mr. Lewis could report his meet- 
ing with me. There were more reasons for this than 
fear, however. My store of money was melting 


176 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


away in a manner which astonished me. I, who 
had never been accustomed to make any great out- 
lays, had imagined myself possessed of a fortune 
with my hundred and fifty dollars, but by the time 
I had bought necessary clothing and paid board for 
two I found this sum so reduced as to fill me with 
the utmost alarm. It is true Eva had promised to 
keep me supplied, but I had not the fullest confi- 
dence in her promises. 

This subject had added not a little to my perplex- 
ities, and I had turned over in my mind what I 
could do to make some money, as the horror of be- 
ing left without was terrible to me. I was afraid 
to make any attempt to get work in Lynchburg — 
or, indeed, anywhere in Virginia, as grandpapa 
was too well known in the State to admit of a pos- 
sibility of my not being recognized by his friends. 
I might have gone on thinking vaguely of this 
until I was really reduced to penury but for the 
meeting with Mr. Lewis. This decided me, and, 
as it happened, I got a letter from Eva that very 
day. 

Eva and myself correspond under feigned names. 
I receive letters directed to “ Miss Lucy Simpson,” 
and write to her under the cognomen of “ Miss Eliza 
Cash.” 

Well, as I said, a letter came directed to Miss 
Lucy Simpson the very day after my meeting with 
Mr. Lewis. This is the letter : 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


177 


“Richmond, Feb. 15, 18 — . 

“ My darling Lin : I am afraid you have wea- 
ried for news from home, but I have been very sick, 
and, as I could not send your letter to the office, I 
had to wait until I got well enough to take it my- 
self; so yesterday I crawled up, and, declining 
Maxy’s kind offer to go with me, went to the P. O. 
and found your letter. I am so glad you are get- 
ting on so well.” (I am sure I do not know from 
what Eva gathered this piece of information, as I 
have been most particular to let her know just how 
miserable I am. But she always did have a way 
of believing just what she wanted to believe.) “ I 
am sure I could not have managed half so well. 

“ I have been very wretched — so much so that 
I have made them all very uneasy about me. My 
dear Lin, be thankful that you have not such a sen- 
sitive nature as your poor sister. It is certainly a 
great source of unhappiness. 

“ We are very quiet here now. All miss you 
dreadfully, but I know you are at the post of duty, 
and that comforts me ; and, although they do not 
know all I do, yet they believe you are doing 
right. Aunt Mary says she has no doubt you are 
just in the place and undergoing rhe discipline ap- 
pointed for you by your heavenly Father, and that 
you will come out an honor to yourself and a pride 
to all. 

“ Now, dear Lin, this ought to comfort you very 
12 


178 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


much, and I have no doubt it will. You have now 
the opportunity of overcoming the very faults which 
have been so much trouble to you and have given 
me so much anxiety about you ; and, after all, it is 
only as if you had gone away to school for a while, 
for it cannot last long. When I am married I will 
make it all right. And you know you did not 
want to marry Harry for a while yet ; and if you 
had been here you would have been obliged to do it. 

“ Harry is tolerably well. Of course he shows 
his anxiety about you, for he loves you truly, though 
I never did think you and Harry could have the 
same romantic devotion which Dr. Harrison and 
myself have. Having been brought up together 
makes you more like brother and sister. 

“I hear from Dr. Harrison constantly. He is 
wilder than ever about me. Indeed, I believe if 
anything should happen to separate us, he would 
never survive it; or if he did live it would be 
bereft of reason. 

“ I think grandma and grandpa think I ought not 
to be married until you return, but you and I know 
how important it is that I should be, as then I can 
help you and her. I am glad to feel that I am not 
selfish in this matter. No ; I shall always be ready 
to do my part. But, my dear Lin, do be firm now. 
After being so brave as you have, don’t turn cow- 
ard. I depend upon you. 

“ Grandpa gave me some money yesterday to buy 


A CHAPTER OF LIN'S STORY. 


179 


some things for myself, but I send it to you. Don’t 
worry, now, dear, for fear I am depriving myself of 
anything absolutely necessary. I can get along 
pretty well, and it is a real pleasure to be unselfish. 

“Are you quite safe in Lynchburg? If you 
should think it best to leave there, let me know, and 
I will continue to write to you and send you what 
I can. 

“ There is no news which would interest you. 
Everything is so quiet, and none of us go out at 
all. Lyle Wallace comes very often, but he knows 
it is no use ; but, really, he is a very nice fellow, and 
it is pleasant to have some one about who admires 
you, even if one is engaged. 

“ But I must stop. God bless you, my poor dar- 
ling ! W rite soon to 

“ Your devoted sister, 

“ Eva.” 

I cried for hours after I got this. Really, I do 
believe Eva thinks she has the hardest part of this 
trial to bear, and what she tells me to comfort me 
doesn’t have any such effect. I feel only as if they 
were all taking my disappearance so quietly — even 
Harry ; though, somehow, I don’t believe that at 
all, and I do think it is presuming a good deal in 
her so coolly to make Harry’s and my plans for us. 
Anyhow, I could not do what she is going to do — 
marry a man without letting him know all about 


180 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE . 


the stain upon her name. I cannot yet believe she 
will never tell him a word. I will write about that 
to her. It seems too dishonest to credit. 

And then, as to this discipline being necessary to 
me, my faults — I know I have faults — dreadful 
faults — but no more than some other people I could 
mention who are put through no such schooling. 
No ; it is all wrong, somehow or other. Eva al- 
ways did get me mixed up and confused about right 
and wrong, and I am no wiser than when I was a 
child. 

My poor Harry ! The idea of your going round 
moping so for me, and the cool way in which Miss 
Eva sets us down with a mild little brother-and- 
sister attachment so inferior to the grand Harrison 
passion ! Well, truly, my sister is an enigma past 
my solving. 

After all, Maxy, there is something I do know — 
that I am not doing my duty to the woman I must 
call mother, and, what is more, I find the longer I 
do not do my duty, the more does this unnatural 
feeling of shrinking from her grow upon me. If 
I think she is going to touch me — even to brush by 
me — in passing, I draw away from her ; and once 
or twice, weak and silly as she is, I know she has 
seen this, and has looked at me beseechingly with 
tears in her eyes. And when I have gone on, stonier 
than before, she has gone away in the next room, and 
then I was more miserable than ever. 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


181 


I wonder if Harry could love me if he could 
see me now ? I doubt if he would know me with 
these dark rims around my eyes and not a bit of 
blood in my cheeks. If I was at all sick, I would 
think maybe I was going to die, I am so changed 
in appearance, but I am as well as I can be. Ah, 
well ! I wonder when it will all end ? 

I have not been to church since I came here, be- 
cause I am afraid of being seen by some one who 
knows me, this place is so near home. When I go 
to Baltimore — for I have determined to go there to- 
morrow — I will seek out some quiet little church, 
and maybe I will be in a more Christian temper 
then. And I will take the woman with me. I 
need not sit by her ; I don’t think that is necessary 
at all. I don’t think I could listen to anything, 
and I am sure she would not, but would be watching 
me all the time. 


Baltimore, April 25 — . 

I have not written anything in this history for a 
long while. I remember what stopped me the last 
word I wrote. My mother came into the room and 
stood beside me for a moment without speaking. I 
was used to that, and did not even look up. At last 
she said, 

“ My child !” 

“ My name is ‘ Linda,’ ” I answered, without rais- 
ing my eyes. 


182 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ All ! ‘ Linda ’ ! I remembare de little babe. 
Ah, yes ! it is so !” 

In her voice there was something which touched 
even my hard heart. I do not know what it was 
— sorrow, penitence, memory and tenderness all 
combined. I know I said, 

“Sit down, mother.” 

She responded with a grateful look, as if I had 
done some great favor to her, and then said, while 
she wiped her eyes, 

“ Linda, let me speak to you dis once. We will 
die — you and me — if dis life go on. You grow so 
white and what you call tire,” passing her hands 
over her person to assist in conveying her idea. 
“ You weep ; you speak not to me one day and 
other — I, your mother.” 

I looked up with an impatient gesture which 
always expressed my feeling when this connection 
was recalled. 

“ Pardon, my child ! Linda, I mean. I come 
to say I go away dis day. I will beg my road 
back to de boat, and will go back again to Paris 
and die. You shall nevare see me more — nevare 
hear from me more. You go back to your sister, 
and no people will know dat de poor woman is in 
de street. You vil be happy. I am satisfied.” 

I looked at her in astonishment. In the weeks 
we had been together she had scarcely uttered so 
many coherent words. But, though I was troubled, 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


183 


I was not melted, and my voice sounded cold and 
hollow to myself. 

“ Oh no !” I said ; “ of course, that is impossible. 
No matter what the past has been, you are my 
mother, and it is my duty to take care of you.” 

“Non! non! I was no moder to you. I 
leave my children for de amusements — de joy — of 
Paris. You owe me noting.” 

“ That is true,” I said, “ but still it does not 
change things. You brought me into the world ; 
that is an obligation I suppose my life must be 
spent in paying.” 

As I promised, I write everything faithfully, 
Maxy, as it occurred, though I blush as I record 
this against myself. 

The poor creature sat with folded hands and 
shook her head as she said, 

“ I ask it not ; I demand not anyting. I grow 
old ; I no longer haf de beauty to make love me. 
; Tis better I die. Let me go, my Linda.” 

“ We will both go away from here to-morrow,” I 
said more kindly. “ I will try and do my duty to 
you. God will help me.” 

“ 1 God , ! Know you God ? No ; he helps not, 
he hears not. I ask him for bread, and I starve ; 
I ask him for my husband, and he is dead. My 
children hate me — hold away de robes dat dey touch 
not de moder. No, believe not ; dere is no God.” 

Ah ! what was I doing? I, a professed follower 


184 


UNDER THE PR UN1NG-KNIFE. 


of the meek and humble Saviour, who when he was 
despised despised not again, and I, not content with 
destroying my own soul, dragging another — and 
that other of my own parent — down to destruction ! 
I do not know how it was, but all at once the 
strength seemed to go out of me, and I fell on the 
floor with my head against the knees of this de- 
spised mother, crying, 

“Ah! I am so wicked! Forgive me, mother, 
forgive me !” 

It was another reproach to me that my mother, 
either from surprise or from some other cause, 
started away, exclaiming, 

“ ‘ Forgive 9 ! What forgive? I am noting.” 

“ You are all the mother I have,” said I, hang- 
ing my head. “I have been a very bad child. 
But mother, you say I am like my father. He 
bore patiently with you, and I will try.” 

“ Like George Dalreemple ! Yes, like, but not 
like. There was no despise in his eyes. Grief and 
anger often, but no despise. But, helas ! den I was 
yong and tr&s jolie No, I stay not; I go away. 
To your friends go you — de sister who is so like 
to my youth Tink no more of me. It is but your 
sleep ; you have visions — bad dreams. You wake ; 
it is noting. You hear no more from me ; I go 
away ;” and as she finished she started to the door 
and picked up a bundle which lay there, containing, 
I found, her clothing. 


A CHAPTER OF LIN’S STORY. 


185 


Starting forward, I seized her dress— the first time 
I had ever voluntarily touched my mother, the first 
time I had not shrunk away bitterly from even 
chance contact with her. 

“ Stop and let me speak !” I cried, for the second 
time in that hour sinking on the floor at her feet. 
“ I have been very wicked. God is angry with me. 
Oh, do not bring down his curse upon me. Stay, 
and let me try once more. I will try to be bet- 
ter. Let us go away and begin a new life.” 

She came back, and, sitting down with her bun- 
dle in her lap, broke into bitter weeping, and with a 
voice all incoherent from agitation cried, 

“Ah, when you speak like dat, I have no power 
to leaf you. Let me stay. Your domestic I will 
be. I work for you, I die for you. But hate not 
me; it kill me. God is just; I am punish. But 
oh, forgive ! De moder is in de heart now. I am 
old before my time.” 

As my only answer I rose, and, stooping over her, 
kissed her forehead. She looked up wonderingly, 
and there seemed an impulse about her arms as if 
she would embrace me ; but she was too much afraid 
of a repulse until I said, 

“ Yes, mother ; put your arms about your child.” 

Suddenly all my angry hatred seemed to have 
melted away. I felt humble and penitent — just as 
I used to do after my terrible outbursts of passion 
when I was a little child. 


CHAPTER XV. 


LIN'S STORY CONTINUED. 

T HE next day we left Lynchburg and came to 
Baltimore. I found my mother could help me 
a good deal in making economical arrangements, for 
she knew so much more than I about poverty and 
struggling ; and after a little while we succeeded in 
getting quite comfortable rooms with a poor woman 
who was to do our cooking for us. No one can 
ever know of the discouragements and heartachings 
of those early days, but I learned something, at any 
rate : I had learned to try to do right, and leave 
the events with God. 

I must tell how I was helped in this. The first 
Sabbath after we got settled. I said, 

“ Now, mother, we must go to church.” 

“ ‘ Church * I” she said, and stared at me dismayed. 
“ Yes, mother ; we are trying to do right now, 
and the way to learn the lesson is to go to the house 
of God.” 

a Non ! non /” she exclaimed, more in a tone of re- 
monstrance than of absolute refusal. “ I love not to 
go to church ; I liaf not de clothes. Oh, ask me not ! 
186 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


187 


I have no rouge for my face ; my bonnet is what 
you call very oogly and she looked with disgust 
at her plain straw bonnet, which I held in my 
hand. 

“ But. mother,” I said, “ I want you to go. And, 
mother, you will not, I know, when I ask it of you, 
use any more dreadful paint on your cheeks. 
Ladies here do not.” 

“ del /” she cried, starting back ; “ I cannot. I 
no longer have yout’ ; I do for myself what I can to 
restore it.” 

“ But, mother,” I entreated, “ we do not care. 
You and I have only each other. I do what pleases, 
you ; you do what pleases me. Is it not so ?” 

“Ah, my child, you are good ; you are one 
angel ;” and she came toward me with that hum- 
ble little gesture which in my changed feelings 
toward her had become so touching. It was as if 
she wished to kiss me, but feared to propose it. 

I readily yielded to her wish, and said, 

“ I love you, motherland I love you better with- 
out paint on your cheeks.” 

She looked so humbly grateful ! It was the first 
time I had ever approached such an avowal to her, 
and it gained my point. 

I do not know whether it was my altered feelings 
and the blessing God was sending on me in answer 
to my prayers and efforts to do my duty which made 
everything seem different, or because the light of 


188 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


happiness in my poor mother’s life had worked a 
change in her appearance; certainly, she did not 
look to me at all the same person I had met two 
months ago in Richmond. I could so plainly trace 
her likeness to my beautiful sister now, and each day 
seemed to develop the growing gentleness and an 
expression I scarce know how to define. I suppose 
it was, as she expressed it, the mother in her heart 
which irradiated her features. Only think ! she is 
not yet forty years old — quite a young woman — but 
the life she has led, which I do not like to think 
about, the suffering and actual want of its last years, 
have made her an old woman. She looks older than 
grandma or Aunt Mary, though, really, she is 
young enough to be their daughter. But this is 
a digression, as I want to tell about the first time 
we went to church. 

I shrank sensitively from the large fashionable 
churches, and sent a natural sigh back to the rosy 
life I had put away. Yes, I had entered upon an- 
other state of existence — one which each day seemed 
to separate me more from my aristocratic friends. 
I was no longer a fit wife for Harry ; I belonged to 
the lower class of the population. So I asked our 
landlady if there were no church where plain people 
go to worship God. She laughed good-humoredly, 
and said, 

“Well, I attend a Methodist meeting-house a 
little distance off ; you can go with me if you have 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


189 


a mind to — though I must say I consider myself just 
as good as them what goes to the fine churches.” 

Without waiting to discuss this question, off I 
went and made upon my mother’s outposts the 
attack which I have already told about. She hated 
the plain, dark-colored clothes which, without con- 
sulting her, I had made for her ; and if she could 
have laid hands on them, I know she would have 
stuck flowers in her black straw bonnet, but I was 
safe there, and we walked off side by side, follow- 
ing Mrs. Perkins and “ her good man ” to the 
“ meeting-house,” to hear Brother Harris — “ a rail 
sound, stir rin’ gospel-preacher,” as Mr. Perkins re- 
ported. 

If Harry had been beside me, I know I would 
have laughed when, after the preliminary services, 
Brother Harris gave out his text : “ Eat such 
things as are set before you, asking no questions 
for conscience’ sake.” 

It did seem such a funny text, and Brother Har- 
ris did talk through his nose, there is no doubt ; 
but I was not the first person, I suspect, who began 
to listen to a sermon with a laugh in the heart and 
ended with a prayer. If ever God puts words in 
the mouths of his ministers for a particular end, he 
spoke through good plain Brother Harris to me. 
This is a part of his sermon : 

“All the world are either obeying or disobeying 
this injunction of St. Paul. The child turns away 


190 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


from the healthy food set before him to cry for 
unwholesome sweets, and willfully asks why they 
are denied him, lacking the sense and the wisdom 
to discern the palpable reason. The sick man turns 
with weary disgust from the delicate food prepared 
to tempt his morbid appetite and thinks the fault 
is in his meal, when it is in his own diseased stom- 
ach, which requires medicine more than food. The 
rich man grumbles discontentedly over his dainties 
because his richer neighbor has some dish which he 
has not been able to procure, while the poor Chris- 
tian sits down to his dish of bread and potatoes and, 
humbly raising his eyes to heaven, cries, ‘ God, we 
thank thee for this and all thy mercies !’ 

“ But,” he continued, “ this text of the apostle’s 
is not a mere admonition to good manners ; it has 
a far deeper meaning : it maps out our lives for us. 
The whole world is at a feast, and the table has 
been prepared by your Creator, who better than 
any other knows the frames he has made and just 
what is best suited to them. Before one he sets a 
dish of riches and bids him help himself freely ; 
another, just next him, has only the poor crust of 
poverty seasoned with tears. One man has talents 
and honors ; another, a dull brain and great phys- 
ical powers. One woman has beauty and the won- 
derful power of attracting others ; while another has 
a plain exterior covering a wealth of heart which 
is a richer gift ; and the Lord of the feast says, 


LIN’S STOEY CONTINUED. 


191 


‘ Eat such things as are set before you, asking no 
questions/ This is our part — to use well and 
thankfully what he gives us, trusting His wisdom 
and love who made us and knows just what is the 
food best suited for the growth and welfare of our 
immortal souls. Beware how you question his prov- 
idence. Many a man kneels down in the morning 
and prays, ‘ Give us this day our daily bread/ and 
rises up to grumble over this same bread, given in 
answer to his prayer, because, forsooth, it is made 
of darker flour than his neighbor’s, not knowing 
that the additional bolting required to make that 
flour whiter took from it the very element needed 
to preserve the life of his soul. 

“ Our duty is simply to eat what is set before us 
— in other words, ask God’s blessing, when you 
sit down to the feast, and then do heartily and 
earnestly the first work which comes to your hand, 
believing God sent it ; accept the seat at the table he 
points out to you, not looking round to observe how 
many of your neighbors have softer chairs or finer 
dishes than yourselves ; that is, accept the position 
in which he puts you and do your whole duty in it, 
‘ asking no question.’ Don’t kneel down and pray, 
‘ Choose thou my path for me,’ and then, when that 
path seems a little rough to your feet, a little steep 
for your climbing, try to get out of it by saying, 
‘ This is not God’s path ; man made this. I prayed 
to God to choose my road, and as a reward he 


192 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


would give me a good, easy, pleasant one to travel. 
I will try and find it;’ and you start off and get 
lost in tlie wilderness, and finish up to your neck 
in the ‘ Slough of Despond/ And when God has 
pity on you and leads you back to the same path, 
though not a stone has been taken out of it, not a 
steep leveled, and shows you the light of heaven at 
the end, you don’t mind the bruises on your feet 
at all ; and if you do breathe a little quicker in 
climbing, it does not make any difference. 

“ Man has nothing to do with these things : he 
is simply the instrument in God’s hand; so you 
go ahead onward and upward ; and if you trust 
in him, your bread and water will be sure. And 
if it is only bread and water, what does it matter ? 
If you are bidden to the marriage-supper after your 
day’s toil is over, there every longing shall be satis- 
fied ; and one can stand a meagre meal with the cer- 
tainty of such a feast before them.” 

Surely, God can send his messages by any one he 
chooses, and mine came by Brother Harris. I nev- 
er before in my life felt so under a sermon. All 
the time he was speaking I was lifting the cover of 
. my dish and observing its contents. I found my 
mother there ; then I took the hard seat at my table, 
and determined simply to take the soul-food set be- 
fore me, coarse and unpalatable as it was, and use it 
as God intended I should, asking no questions. I 
determined to look at the light at the end of my 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED . 


193 


rough, steep road, and to try to mind less the bruises 
to my feet, to thank God for such fare as he provided 
me with, believing that at the marriage-supper I 
should be satisfied. 

As was natural, I glanced round at my mother 
as I made these applications of the sermon, and 
found she was evidently listening, though with rather 
a puzzled face, and as she caught my eye she shook 
her head most emphatically. Until we got home I 
did not know what her dissent meant. She said, 

“ Mon enfant , dat man he knows not anyting. 
In Paris, ah ! so many peoples are dead because dey 
haf no bread. I myself many times do be hungry, 
wid no morsel, and no big supper in de efening 
neder.” 

I laughed more heartily than she had ever heard 
me laugh before as I said, 

“ But, mother, hunger was your dish, and it led 
you to a better feast.” 

“ I no understand,” she said, but looking pleased, 
nevertheless, to see that her sullen child could 
laugh. 

“ Why, I am your dish, and you are mine, ma 
ch&rie” I said, courtesying before her. “We must 
take each other and ask no questions.” 

“ I no understand,” she repeated, “ but you laugh ; 
it is right. But I will not eat you, mon enfant .” 

Just then Mrs. Perkins entered with our frugal 
dinner, and I said, 

13 


194 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“Then, mother, we will take your view of the 
subject, and take our dinner.” 

I think I have been different ever since I heard 
that sermon. Before that, duty was hard work ; I 
am afraid I had been looking for an easier path and 
got lost in the wilderness. Now I learned to Believe 
that God had ordered my path, and determined sim- 
ply to go on without looking to anything different. 

In this spirit I wrote to Eva and told her of my 
change of feeling. I said that, as our mother was 
not an old woman, she might live many years, and 
I was determined to walk in the path I had entered. 
My duty was to her, and as I never would marry 
Harry so long as he would be considered degraded 
by the connection, and never could impose the charge 
of my poor mother on even so generous a person 
as himself, I was determined to abandon all thought 
of any change in my circumstances, and, as I was 
sure dear grandpa, grandma and Harry would never 
agree to this if they could find me, I should conceal 
from them the secret of my present residence, get 
some work which would at least help support us 
both, assume the simple name under which she had 
written to me and altogether map out my life by 
the rule of duty, letting desire alone. I did not 
write all this calmly, for no one can know what it 
was to write it ; it seemed like closing the door of 
hope. I shut myself up in my own room to elude 
the watchful eyes of my mother, and such bitter 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED . 


195 


tears as fell at every line fully attested how terrible 
was the wrench which severed my ties from those I 
so fondly loved. I also wrote to Harry and en- 
closed the letter to Eva, to be mailed, as my others 
had been, in the Richmond post-office. This was 
my letter : 

“ My dearest Harry : I very well know by 
my own feelings in writing this letter how bitterly 
you will grieve in reading it, and this thought more 
than my own trial wrings my heart. 

“ Harry, I know you love me very dearly — this 
conviction has been my only consolation during these 
two months of despondency — and Harry, dear Har- 
ry ! if I had the ordering my destiny, I would go 
right to you and tell all my troubles into your 
sympathizing ear. But this is impossible, Harry. 
When I left Richmond, I did not imagine I could 
be gone more than a little while; if I had, I do 
not think I could ever have had the courage to go 
through with it. But now I cannot help seeing that 
there is not the least prospect of my coming back to 
you for many years, if ever, and in such circum- 
stances, dear Harry, do you not see what is my 
duty? Can I go on binding your life to mine? 
If there was any way for it to be made right for 
me to come back and fulfill my promise to you, it 
would be different, but there is not. What was 
nothing but impulse at first has become a strong 


196 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


necessity — a binding duty which to avoid would be 
a crime. So, Harry, I must say ‘ Good-bye 9 to 
you. Ah ! can I — can I — break the tie of a life- 
time? I never knew what that tie was until this 
minute, when I find that to break it is like tearing 
out my heart. But it has to be done, and I cannot 
but think, if you knew all the circumstances and it 
were anybody else than you and me — one of your 
friends, for instance — you would see it as I do. At 
any rate, dear, dear Harry — my ‘ Little Uncle/ my 
associate editor in the dear old Woodlawn News , my 
partner in everything — you must not forsake me 
now. Stand by me, Harry, as you used to do in 
the dear old days when Cousin Betsey was hard on 
me, and when I was such a poor, passionate, sensi- 
tive child. Harry, all that keeps me up now is 
the hope that you will not doubt me, but will be- 
lieve that, though everything is so strange and you 
do not understand it at all, you believe in me even 
when I tell you you must not think of me any 
longer except as a dear sister. 

“ Ah, Harry ! it almost breaks my heart to think 
of you all going back without me to dear old Wood- 
lawn next summer. If trials make us better, I ought 
to be an angel after this. 

“ Harry, there is one thing, and only one, you 
can do to comfort me, and that is to put in the 
Bichmond Enquirer just these words : ‘ I trust you. 
Harry/ I shall look out for this, remember. 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


197 


Put it in on the 10th of May. And now I must 
say, ( Good-bye/ dear, darling grandpa, grandma, 
Maxy, Aunt Mary, Tom, Lyle, Annie, and even 
Cousin Betsey. I would love even Cousin Betsey if 
I could see her now. And last, dear Harry, I must 
say ‘ Good-bye ’ to you and to our happy engage- 
ment, for we must not think of each other any 
more. The past is past, and the future we must 
shape by the duties and dictates of conscience. 

“ God bless you, Harry, and make you good and 
happy is the daily prayer of one who was so proud 
to call herself 

“ Your own loving 

“Lin.” 

In a very short time came an answer to my let- 
ter to Eva. If the door of hope had not been 
quite shut, with the latch down and the key 
turned, her letter would have secured it firmly : 

“ Richmond, April 30, 18 — . 

“ My precious Sister : Y our noble, self-sacri- 
ficing letter reached me only two days ago, and I 
hasten to answer it that I may tell you how my 
heart thrills at the thought that one capable of 
such noble self-devotion should be my sister. It 
is certainly a privilege to have the opportunity to 
act the part you are doing, and I am sure you will 
be rewarded for it. 


198 


UNDER THE PRUNIN O-KNIFE. 


“ I cannot help feeling how providential it was 
that you insisted so upon being the one to go the 
day we parted, as I feel so sure I could never have 
acted the heroine as you have done. No; your 
poor little Eva would have crept back to Richmond 
with our disgrace tacked to her back, or have died 
of shame. I say it with regret, dear Lin : I am 
not made of stout enough stuff for a heroine ; I am 
fitted only to be taken care of and petted. I could 
not bear the rough contact with the world which you 
are having. All that you say is so true, so pious , and 
your plans show wonderful wisdom. It is a most 
unfortunate occurrence, of course, that the woman 
did not die long ago, but that can’t be helped, and 
it only remains for us to make the best of it. 

“ I think your plan to get something to do is a 
good one, though, of course, I will continue to send 
you money. That is one reason I am listening to 
Dr. Harrison’s entreaties that we should be married 
in May. I am obliged to confess, my dear Lin, 
that I have never told him of our misfortune. This 
has not been difficult when I only had to write to 
him ; but when he comes, he will have to hear a 
part. Not about her , though. Never ! never ! 

“ I cannot tell you how I have suffered about this 
trouble. Every one thinks me fearfully changed. 
The least noise startles me, and sometimes, when 
there is a ring at the door-bell or any one comes in 
suddenly, I imagine it is either you or she , or some 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED . 


199 


news that you have changed your mind and given 
up what is so manifestly your duty, and come back. 
This is only my nervousness, as, of course, I know 
you too well to do you any such great injustice . You 
have a noble nature, dear Lin, and it gives me pleas- 
ure to encourage you by bearing my testimony to the 
fact which few give you credit for as fully as I do. 
I think it is right hard that the time in a girl’s 
life which is generally so happy, so full of bright 
anticipations, should be so clouded for poor me. 

“ I will be married on the 20th of May. No one 
w T ill be here but the family, and I will be married in 
the parlor, and not go to church. Grandpa would 
not agree to have any company because of the mys- 
tery about you. I have no wish for it, either. Of 
course, though, it does seem a pity that my lovely 
dress should not be seen by some one, does it not? 
I expect the Harrisons will send beautiful presents, 
they are so rich. They have written me lovely let- 
ters — rather stately and formal, though I know they 
are as proud as Lucifer, and this fact makes me 
more anxious to keep our secret from creeping out. 
Dr. Harrison talks so much of his mother’s grand- 
father, the youngest son of a lord who came over 
with Lord Baltimore. 

“ So, dear Lin, in view of all these circumstances, 
you cannot wonder that I thank you again for your 
noble determination. My part will be to supply you 
with the means of living, or as much of it as I can, 


200 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


as, of course, having to send it without Dr. Harrison’s 
knowing it may delay it often, and therefore it will be a 
relief to all parties for you to get some little easy work 
to do. It will amuse you too, dear Lin ; it must be 
so lonely for you, and, as grandpa says so often, there 
is no panacea for the blue devils like employment. 

“ I will not write again before I am married. 
We will go to New York. I wish I could manage 
to see you when I pass through Baltimore, but, of 
course, I must deny myself that pleasure, as I will 
be surrounded by the doctor’s friends. We will 
have a reception at his mother’s, in which, of course, 
I don’t feel much heart, but, as he is the eldest son, 
they make a great matter of his marriage, and I 
suppose will load me with everything. We will be 
in New York two or three weeks, then return to our 
own home on Charles street ; then I will certainly 
manage to see you. If it were not for our secret, I 
should be perfectly happy, Dr. Harrison is so de- 
voted and so rich, though not so handsome, I must 
say, as Lyle Wallace. 

“Tom Hastings is studying law in grandpapa’s 
office; he is very steady. I suspect Katie will 
finally marry him. Frank Macon and Jane Taylor 
are married at last. We are all going off*, are we 
not ? Well it is our fate, I suppose. 

“ I must stop, dear Lin. As I enter Baltimore 
I shall send a thousand kisses in the direction of 
where I think your little home is. 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


201 


“ God bless you, my darling sister, and reward 
you as you so richly deserve for your noble self-sac- 
rifice, is the prayer of 

“ Your devoted sister, 

“Eva Dalrymple.” 

I sat a long time with this letter in my hand, 
thinking not veiy pious thoughts about my sister, I 
am afraid. Sometimes I fear my love for Eva has 
never been as deep as it ought to be, and I fairly 
tremble when I think of what our Saviour says : 
“ He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, 
how can he love God whom he hath not seen ?” and, 
of course, a sister is just the same. But it does 
seem to me that Eva is a little selfish in this mat- 
ter. She evidently thinks the money she sends 
me with her thanks for what she calls my “ noble 
conduct ” — I have hated that word all through her 
letter — is her entire obligation, and the idea of her 
being willing to marry that man under false pre- 
tences seems too dreadful to think of. I do not 
think I am any better than Eva in many things — 
maybe not half so good — but I could not do that. 

Then there is another thing : will it be right in 
me to take Dr. Harrison’s money for our support 
without his knowing it ? Now, let me reason that 
out, as grandpa would say. Here is my and Eva’s 
mother and myself on one side and Eva and Dr. 
Harrison on the other, and his money between the 


202 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


two. Then I took this position under a promise 
from Eva that she would send me money to live. 
Well, so long as this came from dear grandpa I 
did not think about it, though, now my conscience 
is alive, I do not know that it was exactly right in 
me to let Eva send me the money he had appropri- 
ated to another purpose, though he would have given 
me that, and a good deal more, if he had known I 
wanted it. So I cannot feel very, very conscience- 
stricken about that, because I know I would be so 
very welcome if he only knew ; and then we would 
have starved without. But it is a different thing 
with Dr. Harrison. Ought I to encourage Eva in 
commencing her life with a regular lie 9 It is not 
worth while to mince matters when I am reasoning 
out a thing on the pages of my own blank-book ; 
and it can’t be called anything else, possibly. I re- 
member reading a story once about a young wife 
who before her marriage bought an expensive bon- 
net which she depended upon paying for afterward 
out of her husband’s purse, and all the evils to which 
this led. She would not tell him about it because 
she was too proud, but she got after a while not too 
proud to tell stories about it, and it brought her 
under all sorts of suspicion with her husband. He 
would give her money to pay a certain bill, and find 
that only a part was paid ; and so it went on and 
on until they became so miserable that they had to 
separate. Now, it would be still worse with Eva ; it 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


203 


would be a continual drain, having to send us money. 
And oh, only think what might be the consequences ! 
No ! Clearly, unless Eva will tell her husband the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, it would not 
be right for me to let her send the money, though 
what I am to do without it I cannot imagine. 

Now, stop ! there is one other point which I have 
not reasoned about — one which may make a differ- 
ence. I hope it will. Is it not Eva’s duty to fur- 
nish the money for her mother’s support, as it is 
mine? And when she marries Dr. Harrison, does 
not his money belong to her ? Yes ; that seems a 
clear case. But then, again, does it belong to her 
in such a way as to make it right for her to use it 
without his knowing it, and in a way of which he 
might not approve? Well, I think that is a mat- 
ter I have nothing to do with ; if she chooses to do 
it, it is none of my business, and it is fulfilling her 
part of our contract. It seems clearly her duty to 
do something. Yes ; that decides the question. I 
will just stop bothering about it and eat what is set 
before me, “ asking no questions.” I am so glad I 
heard that sermon ! it is so good to be able to apply 
it ! and I think God has sent it now to comfort and 
decide me in this matter, because it is very plain I 
cannot do this work by myself, and God works by 
instruments ; and Eva is his instrument. 

Written the next day : 

It certainly is very hard to know and to do what 


204 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


is right, and very humiliating to have to feel, after 
all your reasoning and reasoning, that the devil is at 
the bottom of it. If God would only speak to a per- 
son as he did to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and tell 
him in so many words what to do, it would be so 
much easier to know what is right ; but when Satan 
is whispering in your ear in a voice which sounds 
like God’s, and when your own coward heart is 
suggesting all kinds of fears, and you are altogether 
such a mean, contemptible, faithless creature, it is 
just ten to one whether you go right or not. 

Now, after my little wise reasoning I w r ent to 
bed and tried to sleep, but all the time something 
was coming into my head which kept me wide awake. 
It was something I heard grandpa and Harry talk- 
ing about the law — that in a robbery one privy to 
the intention is made a party to the act. I just 
shut up my ears and eyes, but it was no use. Per- 
haps it was God whispering to my conscience ; at 
any rate, I was obliged to do my reasoning over 
again, and have come to the conclusion that if I let 
Eva take that money without telling her husband I 
am almost as bad as she is ; and if God chooses I 
can get along without it, and if he does not I sus- 
pect it would be better for us to starve than to do 
wrong, though starving is a pretty hard thing to do, 
and I hope God will keep us from coming to that. 

So, before I had time to change my mind, I wrote to 
Eva and told her that unless she would tell her hus- 


LIN’S STORY CONTINUED. 


205 


band the whole truth and get him to send the money 
for the support of our mother I never would receive 
a cent. I begged her to do this, because it certainly 
was wrong to deceive Dr. Harrison ; and if he loved 
her it could make no difference, and if it did she 
had better settle the matter before she was married. 
I did not get any answer to this letter. 

In the mean time, I had two or three things to 
think about which kept me very wide awake. First 
and foremost, the tenth of May was coming, and would 
Harry put that little drop of comfort in the paper 
for me? Mr. Perkins was employed to engage me 
the papers for a week about that time, and I looked 
forward to it with the most intense eagerness. Next, 
would Eva do the honest thing and tell Dr. Harri- 
son everything ? and if so, what effect would it have 
upon my life? My heart bounded so sometimes 
when I thought of what might happen ! I felt 
like a prisoner who has a hope held out to him of 
release. And then, if she did not do this — and I 
confess my mind misgave me very much when I 
suffered myself to think soberly about it and weigh 
all the facts — what was I to do ? This sent me to 
my knees. I studied the columns of the newspa- 
pers to see if I could find any field there for my 
limited resources. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HARRY’S MESSAGE. 

I T is the 12th day of May, dear Maxy ; the Rich- 
mond papers of the 10th get here to-day. You 
have not forgotten that they are to contain my little 
drop of comfort from my dear Harry ? But only 
suppose he should not write ! I think it would kill 
me, almost, not to find the message. Other people 
may read it and wonder what it means, but at last 
it is for me alone, just as if it were folded and sealed 
up in an envelope. Mr. Perkins promised to get me 
the paper as soon as it comes. Ah ! no one can un- 
derstand my eagerness excepting one who has starved 
and is promised a feast. 

Eleven o'clock . — I have just heard the car- whis- 
tle ; it seemed to me to shriek out, “ I have news 
for you !” Then the cars, as they came into the 
station, said, “ Pve got your paper ! Pve got 
your paper !” Now, don’t laugh at me, Maxy 
dear; I can’t stand it. 

Six o'clock. — Mr. Perkins takes dinner at the 
unfashionable hour of one o’clock, and I spent the 
whole hour from twelve to one running to the win- 
dow to see if he was coming. Katie Macon never 
206 


HARRY’S MESSAGE. 


207 


looked for Tom with half the eagerness, but Harry 
need not be jealous : Mr. Perkins is red-headed and 
pock-marked and wears Ho. 20 shoes, I suspect, if 
that is very big : I don’t know anything about men’s 
shoes. At last I saw him in the distance, and ran 
down the steps two at a time. Maxy, forgive me, 
dear. I know this is against rules, but the extrem- 
ity of the case ! Forgive ! Thank you. 

“ My paper, please, Mr. Perkins !” I exclaimed. 

“ 1 Paper,’ miss ? I thought the house was afire.” 
He certainly is the most stupid man ! I don’t know 
what made Mrs. Perkins marry him. 

“ Oh, Mr. Perkins, my Enquirer /” I exclaimed. 
I was half crying now. 

“ I did not have the time to get that paper before 
dinner — you see, I was so busy — but I will bring it 
up this evening, sure.” 

I had just to turn and run up stairs quick to 
keep myself from hitting him hard. And then 
those long hours I had to wait ! But my patience — 
or impatience, you will say, Maxy — was rewarded. 
Mr. Perkins had the paper, and ’way off in a cor- 
ner, where no one but myself would think of look- 
ing, is Harry’s precious little message : “ Come 
home, L. ! We can’t do without you ! Yours, 
ever, H.” 

Not at all the words I told him to put in, but 
I don’t care at all. I want that paper put on my 
heart, Maxy, when I die, because no love-letter 


208 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


was ever like it for preciousness. It has put new 
spirit in me for my hard, unpalatable life. Though 
I can’t go home, it is such a comfort to know they 
can’t do without me ! 

May 23. 

So much to tell you, dear Maxy ! To-day I have 
seen Eva. “ Mrs. Harrison” ! how strange it seems ! 

All day Wednesday I was thinking, “ Eva’s wed- 
ding-day !” and I pictured the scene to myself — the 
home circle. Oh, did you miss your poor Lin? 
My dear Harry looked pale ; he was thinking of 
his absent one. If I had only done as he wished 
last summer, all this could never have happened; 
but worse would have happened, so don’t let us 
murmur, but learn the lesson set for us. Oh what 
a hard one it is ! 

That very afternoon came an invitation directed 
to Miss Lucy Simpson. Only think how astonished 
you would all have been if I had accepted it and 
walked in upon you ! Well, Maxy, I knew that 
this afternoon would bring Eva to Baltimore ; so I 
said to mother, 

“ Mother, I want you to go out with me to-day. 
Come ! smooth your hair and put on your best dress 
— your brown one — and your beautiful bonnet.” 
She always makes a wry face at the plain black bon- 
net, but the honor of being asked to walk with her 
undutiful daughter was too great to be despised, and 
overcame to a certain extent even the objectionable 


HARRY’S MESSAGE. 


209 


bonnet. So off we started, I very closely veiled, 
so as not to be recognized by my new brother-in-law. 
We were a little too soon for the cars, and so looked 
about the shop-windows. 

“Ah, mon enfant !” said my mother ; “ could see 
you de windows in Paris, you look no more at dese 
pauvre tings and she turned in disgust from our 
inferior show. 

“Are they so beautiful ?” I asked. 

“Ah, so beau — tiful ! Magnifique ! Superbe !” 
and then she went off into floods of eloquence in 
which her French so completely conquered her Eng- 
lish that I cried, 

“ Mamma, stop ! I do not understand one word 
you say. Say it all over in English.” 

Before she could translate her rhapsodies some 
one brushed against me, and, looking up, I saw no 
less a person than Frank Macon. I knew him in- 
stantly, though he has been from home for four years. 
The change in me must, however, have been greater, 
as he had turned at the sound of my voice, but, ob- 
scured as my face was by my veil, he did not rec- 
ognize me at all, and, raising his hat apologetically 
for his involuntary contact with me, he passed on. 
I suppose he does not know I am lost, or he would 
have been more apt to have discovered my identity 
with Linda Dalrymple of those dear old happy days. 
As for me, I felt stunned, overwhelmed, and for an 
instant a feeling akin to the keenest disappointment 

14 


210 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNTFE. 


possessed me. If he had only recognized me, my 
trial would now be over ; I could go back to those 
old times once more. These thoughts were inter- 
rupted by the car-whistle in the distance, and we 
hurried off to the station. 

Apart from the crowd of hacks and carriages 
waiting the arrival of the cars was an open vehicle 
drawn by a pair of prancing, mettled steeds, the dri- 
ver and footman in livery, and standing around were 
one or two other carriages, in which were richly- 
dressed ladies and gentlemen who eagerly watched 
for the arrival of the cars. My mother and I drew 
off into a corner out of this gay crowd, and I will 
have to confess that tears of bitter anger were cours- 
ing one another down my cheeks at the thought of 
my position, crouching out of sight. Maxy — I am 
very wicked — if I had followed the bent of my 
inclination, I would have shaken mother well as the 
author of all my troubles. 

At last the great cars came lumbering into the 
station, and there was a stir in the crowd of the 
finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen, who stretched 
forward their necks, and presently I heard, u There 
they come ! Oh, is she not lovely ?” and I too 
looked. Yes, Maxy ; it was Eva with Dr. Harrison 
by her side, looking lovely and smiling — oh, in such 
a familiar way that my poor heart just leaped up 
and down with the fondest, saddest memories of you 
all. There was Eva — beautiful, dainty Eva, the 


HARRY’S MESSAGE. 


211 


ladies and gentlemen crowding about her to give her 
a welcome and make a commotion over her. I 
heard every one say, “ Oh how beautiful !” and a 
common porter with a trunk on his shoulder stopped 
•stone-still just by my side, and said, “ I golly ! but 
she is pretty, now !” And she was the prettiest piece 
of flesh and blood I ever saw — my sister Eva. Oh, 
if only the inside were a fit match for that beautiful 
exterior, what a piece of perfection my sister — Mrs. 
Harrison — would be ! 

I had particularly observed two ladies in one of 
the carriages, because I thought they looked like 
Dr. Harrison ; they were proud, hard-looking women, 
lolling back in their elegant coach. When it was 
announced that Eva was coming, they alighted and 
went forward, and I heard Dr. Harrison say, “ My 
mother, my sister.” They kissed her in a stately 
sort of way which would have frozen me, and then 
all returned to their different vehicles. 

Eva was lifted into the beautiful open carriage, 
and — I could not help it — I pressed forward on the 
sidewalk — I, Lucy Simpson, with my mother upon 
my arm, and, as Eva’s head was turned in my direc- 
tion, I for one instant raised my veil and caught 
her eye. I was sorry a minute after; her eyes 
started forward as if she had seen a ghost, and then 
she fell back. I heard Dr. Harrison call to the 
coachman, “Stop ! stop ! Mrs. Harrison has fainted !” 
and then all was confusion. A drug-store just by 


212 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


furnished, restoratives, but oh what a commotion 
they did make over the “ bride ” ! What would 
they have said if Lucy Simpson and her mother 
had pressed forward and claimed the place beside 
his proud mother and sister? But they did not. 

There were such crowding and jostling that there 
was no room for uninterested spectators, so Lucy 
Simpson wedged her way out, and her poor humble 
mother and herself wended their way homeward. 

“Ah, mon enfant! why cry you so?” said my 
mother when, safe at home, I threw myself upon 
the bed and fairly screamed with passion. 

“ Don’t come near me now,” I cried ; “ I cannot 
stand it.” 

She cowered away in a corner. I did not care 
how much I hurt her ; she was the cause of it all. 
Maxy, I know it was dreadful ; but if the evil 
iiature in me could have had its way then, I would 
actually have done something cruel to my mother. 
Oh what a nature I have ! I am sure I do not 
know how I should have wished to increase my 
suffering, but I felt as if I must see Eva at her 
reception that night. It was a sort of morbid pas- 
sion with me which would not be denied, so, going 
down to meet Mr. Perkins that afternoon, I said, 

“ Mr. Perkins, is No. — street very far 

from here?” 

“Wall, yes, miss, it’s a pretty smart piece; that 
must be between and streets.” 


HARRY'S MESSAGE. 


213 


“ Mr. Perkins, is it too far for you to walk there 
with me to-night ?” 

“ Certaingly not, miss. Is it now you wish to 
go?” 

“ No,” I said ; “ not before nine o’clock and so 
it was arranged. 

Lucy Simpson and the honest carpenter Mr. Per- 
kins started out for their moonlight walk at nine 
o’clock, but not alone. I had not spoken to my 
mother all the afternoon ; but when she saw me 
putting on my bonnet, she burst out into the bit- 
terest weeping. 

“ What is it now ?” I asked, impatiently turning 
toward her. 

“Ah, mon enfant! You leaf me; you come no 
more back. I see it all. You go to the sister who 
is so like my youtk Adieu !” 

“ You are mistaken,” I said ; “ I am only going 
to peep in through the windows at my beautiful 
sister. I would be turned from the door if I ven- 
tured farther.” 

“Ah, pardon moi!” cried my mother, bending 
before me. “ I meant it, but I luf you.” 

I lifted her up and kissed her, and told her that 
I had no idea of leaving her; God had given us to 
each other, and, come good or ill, I was never to 
part from her until death came. 

Maxy, I was crying when I said all this, and 
deeply penitent and sorry for my wickedness, but 


214 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


an absurd idea crept in that I was pronouncing the 
marriage ceremony over my mother and myself. 
She was my bride “ till death us do part.” What 
lovely brides Dr. Harrison and myself have ! 

My mother, notwithstanding my assurances, could 
not be content to see me depart. Maxy, sometimes 
her fondness soothes me, and again it aggravates 
me dreadfully. This was not one of the soothing 
times, but, as I had been so dreadfully cross and 
unfeeling, I was obliged to let her go with me. 

The walk was a long one, but Mr. Perkins, being 
an old settler, had no difficulty in finding the place, 
and as we stopped before the house he said, 

“ Why,sakes alive ! it's that fine Harrison house, 
as I live ! And what a sight of people, to be sure !” 

There was “ a sight of people,” truly, carriages 
coming and departing, a stream going in and 
coming out. How were Lucy Simpson and her 
mother to get a look inside? Knock at the door 
and send word to Mrs. Harrison that her mother 
and sister wanted to see her? Wouldn't we have a 
reception of our own then ! No ; that would not 
do. How could we manage it ? I stated our dif- 
ficulty to Mr. Perkins. We had seen the beautiful 
bride arrive to-day ; I had seen Dr. Harrison before, 
and wanted to see his bride in her bridal finery. 
Mr. Perkins laughed a little at the curiosity of 
“ women- kind,” but did not see how it was to 
be accomplished. 


HARRY’S MESSAGE. 


215 


Just at that moment the policeman evidently on 
duty to keep away small boys and interlopers in 
general, passed by, looking at our party suspiciously. 
Mr. Perkins exclaimed with elation, “ Hallo, Brown ! 
you on duty ? That’s what I call confounded good 
luck. Here’s two ladies what don’t belong to the 
qual’ty, but is patients, or something of that nater, 
to Dr. Harrison, and is fairly dying to get a peep 
at the bride. You knows curiosity is ’lowed to the 
sect.” 

At first Mr. Brown declared it was impossible, 
and I — who never could behave myself, you know, 
Maxy — pressed forward and said, 

“ Oh, Mr. Brown, if you only knew how anxious 
we are, you wouldn’t refuse us.” 

The officer turned and looked at me for an instant 
as I stood below the street-light, and then said, 

“ Well, I can’t refuse a pretty young lady like 
you, seein’ I’m lookin’ out for a wife myself. Come 
along !” 

Oh, Maxy, only think ! a policeman who leaves 
off all his final g’s talking to me that way ! Would 
not Harry have knocked him down ? I felt utterly 
humiliated for a moment, and then the next forgot 
all about it in the prospect of seeing Eva. He led 
us through the area-gate — my mother and myself — 
up into a back porch upon which the windows of 
the back parlor opened, and we could see everything 
within perfectly. 


216 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


There, between the folding-doors, stood the bride 
and the groom receiving their visitors, Eva in her 
white silk dress with lace overdress, its long train 
sweeping the floor, her neck and arms bare, but 
shaded by the veil of lace which fell around her. 
She had magnificent pearls in her ears, on her bosom, 
neck and arms, but they were no purer than her 
exquisite skin. She was far more delicate than when 
I saw her last, but so ethereal, so lovely, that I almost 
held my breath while I looked. I forgot all about 
Lucy Simpson and her wrongs, and just felt proud 
that that vision of loveliness was my own sister. 

I was roused by sobs from my mother. 

“ What are you crying about?” I asked. 

“Ah !” she said ; “ you no understand. How 
should you ? I was like dat ; your fader — he love 
me like dat. I cast it away in my folly.” 

“ Well,” I said, “ it is no use grieving now.” 

My voice sounded hard, for her words brought 
back the bitter reality. Here Eva had bread enough 
and to spare — bread of the sweetest and whitest — and 
I had only the hard, coarse husks. Suddenly some- 
thing seemed to say to me, “Would you change 
with her? Would you take her guilty knowledge 
of your common secret, the deception she is prac- 
ticing toward her husband, her poor coward heart 
and her great wealth, in exchange for your honest 
poverty, your clear conscience, your life of stern 
hard duty ?” No ! no ! a thousand times no ! 


HARRY’S MESSAGE. 


217 


Then I put my arm about the form of my poor 
unhappy mother, and said, 

“ Never mind, mother dear. Am not I a comfort 
to you ? If I am a mean, cross thing sometimes, I 
am going to take care of you, and you of me; so 
let us go to our home now and thank God for what 
we have ;” and so we turned away, and, joining 
Mr. Perkins, were soon on our way home. 

The next morning’s mail brought from Eva a 
letter enclosing one hundred dollars and entreating 
me to keep out of sight. 

“Such a risk as you ran to-day might be my 
ruin,” she said, “ for, devoted as Dr. Harrison is to 
me, he would never forgive my deception. I will 
send you money from time to time if you will only 
keep away, and keep her away. Of course it is all 
nonsense, your not taking money from me ; I have 
plenty, and to spare. But I cannot — no, I cannot — 
tell my husband.” 

I took the money and laid it aside, determined 
that, no matter to what straits we were reduced, I 
would not spend it, but would return it to Eva as 
soon as she came back from her wedding-trip. It 
was, or seemed to me, the price of blood. She told 
me that when I got the letter she would be on her 
way to New York, and would not return for four 
weeks. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

WAYS AND MEANS. 


ID now, having taken this very decided stand 



about receiving money from Eva, it was 
necessary that I should look into my affairs. Our 
money was low, and we had as yet no way of adding 
to the stock. I had answered one or two advertise- 
ments, but I felt so overwhelmed with a sense of 
my own incompetency that I did not succeed in in- 
spiring confidence in any one else. Maybe some of 
these days I will laugh over my experiences ; they 
are sorry enough now. 

For instance, looking in the list of “ Wants,” I 
saw “ Wanted, a governess for three little girls. 

Apply at .” I started off at once. The 

house referred to proved to be very big and for- 
midable. I am always afraid of such, because peo- 
ple who live in them belong to the upper-tendom 
and may have heard of the strange disappearance of 
Linda Dalrymple, and also may in some way con- 
found “ Lucy Simpson ” with her, Maxy dear ; so 
I quite trembled when I heard some one coming to 
answer my ring. I was ushered into great double 


218 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


219 


parlors, where I saw myself and my shabby clothes 
repeated in as many as four mirrors, until I was 
fain to sit down and cover my face with my hands 
to shut out the unwelcome sight. But I was not 
alone in the room. The mirrors reflected two other 
ladies, in shabby clothes, sitting very far apart and 
eying each other and myself with rather unfriendly 
looks. 

Very soon the lady of the house came in. She 
was rather a kind-looking lady ; and if I had been 
alone with her, it may be I would not have behaved 
as I did. She spoke to us, and one of the ladies 
who were in the room when I entered said, 

“I come, madam, in answer to your advertise- 
ment in this morning’s paper.” 

“ So do I,” said the other lady, coming to the 
front. 

She looked at me as if she expected me to say 
something, but I could not have for anything entered 
the lists against those two martial-looking women ; I 
know I would have been scalped. So I just got up, 
and, while my face burned dreadfully, I said, 

“ I also saw your advertisement, but I am sure 
these ladies will suit you better than I could do. I 
don’t know anything about teaching, and have very 
little patience; I only thought, as I had to get 
something to do, maybe I might be able. But it 
don’t make any difference ; I am very sure I could 
not do it.” 


220 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


The lady smiled very kindly, and said, 

a Will you not let me judge of that? It may be 
you are the very one I want.” 

“ No, indeed !” I said ; “ I would much rather 
not interfere with anybody else. Good-morning !” 
and I was out of the house before any one had time 
to say more. 

One day, soon after this grand failure, as I was 
walking along the street thinking rather gloomily 
about my depleted purse and of the ways and means 
of filling it, my eye fastened upon a sign : “ Ladies’ 
Depository.” At once there rushed over me the 
remembrance of the establishment in Richmond — 
one of dear Aunt Mary’s hobbies. There ladies 
took their work, and it was given out to the needy. 
You know, Maxy, all about it. How often we 
have had things made there ! Now, what if I 
could get some work? I had given up having 
work done ; I was one of the needy. Well, never 
mind ; God did it. 

You know, Maxy, I never was much of a needle- 
woman, though you labored over me faithfully, but 
I had found out one thing : with all her weakness 
and childishness, my poor mother had one accom- 
plishment — she could sew. She constantly entreated 
me to let her make clothing for me ; and when I got 
her the requisite material, she put the most beautiful 
work upon it, and it seemed a real delight to her — 
kept her occupied and happy. Could she not teach 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


221 


me her art? I determined to try. I would con- 
sult her, too, about my plans. Perhaps I kept her 
too much in the dark ; it should be so no longer. 
So, one day, when we were seated together — she 
with her work and I with a Richmond paper which 
I had been searching for familiar names — I turned 
to her and said, 

“ Mother, I have something to talk to you about.” 

Her face flushed nervously, and I knew the night- 
mare of her life was pursuing her — a fear of my 
leaving her. Each day makes her more dependent 
on me, Maxy, more utterly submissive to my wishes ; 
she seems in her simple way to have an idea of aton- 
ing to me for her former failures in duty as a wife 
and mother. 

“ You go away ?” she exclaimed, laying down her 
work. 

“ No, no !” I said, smiling reassuringly. “ But 
I must get some work to do. Our money is almost 
gone, mother ; I must get some now.” 

She looked appalled at first; then, taking my 
hand and looking at it, she said eagerly, 

“ Work you cannot, mon enfant ; dese hands 
know not work. But me — I know it ; I work for 
mon enfant .” 

I was touched, but for the time turned the subject. 

“ Eva,” I said, “ has been sending us money, but 
she is married now, and I will not receive her hus- 
band’s money.” 


222 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ My husband — votre p&re, mon enfant — had he 
not money?” 

It was the first time she had ever asked a question 
concerning such matters. I told her of the losses 
my grandfather had suffered and of how we had 
been dependent on Judge Wallace. 

“Ah ! ‘ Wallace’! ‘ Wallace M I remembare. 

So polite gentilhomme ! His daughter I remembare. 
What did she?” 

“ He had two daughters,” I said ; “ both married 
before I recollect. Aunt Parke married Mr. Carter, 
and Aunt Lelia is Mrs. Hastings.” 

“Ah, del ! De change, de change ! What folly 
was mine ! Dere was — was to wed wid George ; 
Lelia she was.” 

“ Aunt Lelia !” I exclaimed. “ Oh, you are 
mistaken.” 

“Non, non, mon enfant ! He loved her not, but 
it was wanted — his fader and hers.” 

“And she ?” I asked, amused at this new page in 
family history. 

“ Ah ! I know not well. I loved not any in dose 
days ; it was only Paris. I was mad ;” and her 
head lowered like a child’s in shame and peni- 
tence. 

“Well,” I said, “it is not worth while to moan 
over this now ; we must do the best we can for the 
present. I must get some work to do.” 

“And I,” she said, eagerly — “ I know much work. 




WAYS AND MEANS. 


223 


Let me not sit so while mon enfant work and she 
clasped her hands in her lap to illustrate her idea. 
“ I can much embroider, I can make de flower, I 
can dress de hair. I show you f and with an 
animation of movement I had never seen in her she 
came to me, and, with dextrous hand undoing my 
long hair, with delighted exclamations of “ Magni- 
fique! Superbe!” she commenced her operations. 
Her touch was delightful, and I sat, half laughing 
and wholly luxurious, while she manipulated her 
resources most dextrously. First standing off with 
many a gesture of admiration, she brought the glass, 
and I found myself suddenly transformed into a 
Parisian lady. 

For a moment I was amused — perhaps a little 
flattered, as it was plain it was becoming and I was 
not without my little vanities any more than the rest 
of my sex — and then the bitter thought came into 
my heart, “ What horror ! To have a regular hair- 
dresser for a mother !” What employment had not 
this woman engaged in ? I felt sunk, degraded, and 
with a hand impelled by the passion of the moment 
I tore down all her artistic work, exclaiming, 

“ No ! We are degraded enough without this. I 
will not require ' your help ; I will work for us 
both.” 

“Ah ! you are angry, mon enfant Qu’est-ce que 
c’est? What do I? I mean not anyting;” and 
my poor mother sank into a chair and looked at me 


224 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


with tearful eyes. I had been in such a different 
mood of late that she had ceased to fear me, and 
now I had undone all my labor of so many weeks. 

All this wrought mightily in me as I twisted up 
my long hair, with an exaggeration of plainness, into 
a coil at the back of my head, to contrast as strongly 
as possible with its so late elaboration, but still I 
could not quite in a moment get over my passion ; 
it was not my way. I remembered — and you will 
remember, Maxy — Madame la Page, that fat, greasy- 
looking hairdresser in Richmond who used to dress 
our hair for us, and my only mental connection with 
that class of individuals was through her ; and the 
idea of having a mother like her would be worse 
even than the reality. So I dressed myself by jerks ; 
you know how I used to do long ago when I got 
mad. I put on my bonnet and was leaving the room, 
when my mother, who with tearful eyes had been 
sitting watching my operations, said in her meek 
little voice, 

“Ah, mon enfant , I luf you ! De past is gone ; 
my heart is no more cold to mon enfant. You leave 
me ; I die. I offend I know not how. Forgive 
me, mon enfant.” 

I was moved, but not conquered. I said very 
stiffly, the spirit warring against the flesh and the 
flesh warring against the spirit — and my will was 
one second helping me on one side and then on 
the other, but flesh was stronger — 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


225 


“ You need not be afraid ; you have me safe. I 
never expect to leave you — that is the beautiful path 
spread out for my life — but certainly I may choose 
what profession my mother may adopt, so that we 
may not sink any lower than we already are. Mad- 
ame la Page \” 

This last exclamation was due to a little excursion 
my memory took back to Richmond, embracing old, 
greasy, garlicky Madame la Page, my especial aver- 
sion. 

I suppose there must be some such thing as nature 
between even such an incongruous mother and daugh- 
ter as we were. I know if my passion had been 
with Aunt Betsey or Eva I would have gone on 
without speaking, and I am sure that to no one else 
in the world would my unfortunate mother have 
had any attractions, but she looked so pitiful, so 
meek, and I — Well, she had no one but me in the 
wide world, and she had been hungry often, and had 
worked hard and loved me so devotedly. But I 
went out, nevertheless, and even got to the foot of 
the stairs before my good angel overcame. First I 
stood still a moment, then turned and walked slowly 
up the stairs. 

As I quietly opened the door this cry met me : 

“ Ah, mon Dieu , let me die, let me die ! I have 
noting left. Mon enfant goes ; she leave me. Ah, 
let me die !” 

“ Mother !” I said. 


15 


226 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“Ah, mon enfant” she ejaculated, coming to- 
ward me with clasped hands, “ pitie me ! I luf 
you. I would go away, but I cannot lif away.” 

“ No, no !” I exclaimed, full of contrition. 
“Where should you live but with your child? 
Don’t cry, mother; I am a dreadful creature, I 
know, but I will not leave you.” 

“ Vous etes une ange !” she exclaimed, joyfully ; 
and so we were reconciled. 

I explained to her that I was going to try and 
find work and would bring some to her, but she 
must not take up the hairdressing business ; I did 
not wish it. That was sufficient ; I knew she would 
never mention it again. 

I smiled as I recalled a little home-incident. 
Aunt Lelia Hastings, you remember, spoiled her 
children dreadfully; and when Tom was a little 
fellow, he wanted to carry some unreasonable point 
which required more management than usual. His 
winning argument was, 

“ Now, mamma, you ought to do it, because the 
Bible says you must.” 

“ The Bible says I must ?” said Aunt Lelia, sur- 
prised to find a theologian in Tom the scapegrace. 
“ Prove it.” 

“Well, don’t the Bible say, ‘ Parings, obey your 
children ’ ? There, now !” 

I think Tom gathered this from the ordinary 
family discipline with which he was most familiar, 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


227 


and I am afraid my interpretation of Scripture would 
have been pretty much the same. Certainly, no 
daughter ever had a more obedient mother than 
mine was to me, and I am afraid I tyrannized over 
her dreadfully too. A little power is a dangerous 
thing, and especially if it is the power of an usurper. 

But if I tyrannized over my mother, I too had a 
master ; for oh how my conscience did scold me dur- 
ing that walk ! I will tell you our talk. 

“ W ell,” said conscience, “ this is a most laudable 
conclusion to all of your good resolutions ! This is 
eating what is set before you, with a vengeance ! 
What excuse can you make for yourself? What 
has your mother done?” 

“ Oh, she is unexpressibly irritating to me, with 
her meek, silly ways. I am sure I have given up 
everything for her — home, friends and a bright 
future. Am I to have no credit for that ? Am I 
to submit to be dragged down — down to the dregs 
—by her?” 

“ It is true you have given up a great deal, and 
your heavenly Father has put it down to your 
credit; but has he not even now rewarded you? 
Look into yourself. Has this long struggle not 
been of profit to you ? Has it not been the very 
discipline you needed to develop your nature, to 
give you self-control and power of self-denial? 
You boast of what you have given up. Has no 
one given up anything for you? Did your Sa- 


228 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


yiour not surrender heaven for those who had done 
far worse to him than any human being has done to 
you ? Who put you in this position ? Who gave 
you the opportunity of serving him by properly 
gracing it? Would you rather your poor mother 
had been lost soul and body in the streets of Paris 
than have been given to you by God that her eter- 
nal salvation might be secured ? For shame ! What 
are you doing for that soul ? Missing an opportu- 
nity which may suddenly pass away and leave your 
life a prey to bitter regret. Soul, where hast thou 
gleaned ?” 

My head went down. 

“ I took my mother to church,” I remonstrated, 
feebly. 

“ Yes, and laughed over her misunderstanding of 
the sermon instead of patiently explaining it to her 
and helping her to profit by it. To this day she 
has not the smallest idea of the real meaning of a 
sermon from which you yourself received profit, and 
which you might in a few words have made her un- 
derstand fully. For shame !” 

“ I may have been wrong — indeed, I know I was ; 
but that has nothing to do with the present question, 
and I do think it is perfectly natural in me not to 
want her to take a position which would degrade 
me.” 

“ Degrade you ? How would it degrade you ? 
It is honest work, and your mother would like to 


WA YS AND MEANS. 


229 


feel that she is helping; it would exalt her as 
much as anything possibly could.” 

This contest of the flesh against the spirit and 
the spirit against the flesh brought me to the door 
of the Ladies* Depository in a very meek frame of 
mind. I stopped for a moment at the window, and 
looked in. It was full of beautiful specimens of 
work — infants* robes, embroidered skirts and dresses 
for children and ladies. I saw that a high degree 
of skill was required for this work, but I felt very 
sure my mother was equal to the task. 

Some time I stood there, my pride rising in rebel- 
lion at the thought of what I was about to do. One 
after another passed me ; ladies with bundles of work 
got out of luxurious carriages at the door. Ah ! 
how short a time since I had belonged to that class ! 
Women with the marks of trial and want in their 
faces passed in with their packages. To these I be- 
longed, and I could not easily keep back the tears, 
but I went in with the stream. At first there were 
so many of both classes of customers that I had no 
chance, and was glad enough just to draw back to 
the other side of the room and wait. At last, 
though, a sweet, kind-looking lady behind the coun- 
ter said to me, 

“ Can I wait on you, miss ?** 

Then I felt my face flame and those provoking 
tears come in my eyes, and I could hardly hear my- 
self say, 


230 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ I wanted to see if I could get some work.” 

Oh, it just passed through my mind, “ What 
would grandpa and Harry, and all at home, do, if 
they only knew I was in a ladies’ depository asking 
for work ?” It almost scared me to think of the dis- 
may it would cause. 

The lady behind the counter — I suppose because 
I was well dressed : I had on the bonnet and the 
dress I had worn when I left home — looked sur- 
prised, and very sorry too, as she said kindly, 

“ Come here, my child, and tell me what kind of 
work you want.” 

I was fairly crying now, and was so provoked 
with myself for drawing attention to me that way ; 
but I could not help it. 

“ Embroidery, if you please,” I said, behind my 
handkerchief. 

“ Have you any specimens of your work ?” 

I had never thought of that necessity, but sud- 
denly remembered I had on a collar which my 
mother had embroidered. I showed it, and said, 

“ I do not do the work, but my mother does — 
very beautifully.” 

“ That is certainly a good indication of her skill,” 
said the lady. “ What is your name ?” 

To save my life I could not tell a story ; so I 
hesitated a moment, and then said, 

“ I do not want to give you my real name ; you 
may call me Lucy Simpson.” 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


231 


The lady smiled very kindly, and, going to the 
shelf, took down a roll of white merino with a 
quantity of white floss silk in it. 

“ This,” she said, “ was brought in to-day with 
the request that it might be finished by next Satur- 
day week. Do you think your mother could do 
it ?” 

“ Oh yes,” I exclaimed ; “ I think she would like 
anything so pretty as that to do.” 

“ Then she shall have it,” said the lady, just in the 
way one bestows a special indulgence on a spoiled 
child. Then, after a little hesitation, she said, “ Our 
rules require that you shall deposit with us the value 
of the materials unless you have some security to 
offer.” 

I looked at her in amazement. What did she 
mean? 

“ You don’t understand me?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, it is a business arrangement. You see, 
when any whom we do not know come to us and 
get work, if they do not leave some security we 
might be robbed; and, although — •” 

I understood now. What an insult ! I — Linda 
Dalrymple — was thought capable of robbing, steal- 
ing ! What would grandpa and Harry have said to 
that? I felt my cheeks burn and my eyes flash 
with indignation, and without saying a word threw 
the package upon the counter and turned away. 


232 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


I heard the saleswoman calling to me, but I did 
not heed ; I only wanted to get into the air to get 
rid of the stifling sensation which seemed to be kill- 
ing me. I was so blind with passion it was some 
seconds before I could unfasten the door ; and when 
I succeeded, I rushed out, and as I felt my freedom 
I burst into bitter tears. 

I stood for a moment utterly unable to proceed, 
and faintly heard the door behind me open and close. 
Then a gentle hand was laid upon my arm and a 
sweet, sympathizing voice said, 

“ My poor child, let me help you.” 

I turned and met the dear, sympathizing face of 
a woman who stood beside me with the rejected 
package in her hand. With wise tenderness she 
explained to me that what had so offended me was 
a rule not made for me and enforced because I 
was an object of suspicion, but simply a necessary 
precaution against the attempts of the unscrupulous. 
Light came to me suddenly, and I was overwhelmed 
with confusion. 

“ How silly you must think me !” I said. 

“Not at all,” she replied, smiling; “you only 
show how new a thing it is for you to ask for work. 
I have at home a young daughter who I suspect would 
do pretty much as you have done to-day. But here 
is your work ; I had just bought the materials, and 
take great pleasure in handing it over to you with- 
out any security.” 


WAYS AND MEANS. 


233 


“ Oh, thank you !” I said. “ I have not my 
purse with me ; but if you will keep this — ” and I 
loosened my breastpin. 

Again she smiled so kindly : 

“ No, dear ; keep your pin. I am not the least 
afraid to trust that frank, open face. Will you 
bring the work to me instead of taking it to the 
depository ?” and she handed me her card, bearing 
her name, Mrs. David Sollis, with her address. I 
promised, and we parted. 

I walked home with a lighter heart than I had 
borne for some time. I really bounded up the steps, 
in haste to tell my mother of the success of my 
enterprise and anxious to atone to her for my un- 
kindness. I opened the door of my room — which 
was our sitting-room — crying, u Mother !” but she 
was not there. I went into her room, but there was 
no trace of her. Where could she be? It was a 
most unheard-of thing for her to go out on the 
street alone. Perhaps she was in Mrs. Perkins’s 
room. Of course ! what more natural ? She often 
went there. But it was strange she had not heard 
me pass the door and call her name. 

I leaned over the banisters : “ Mrs. Perkins ! Mrs. 
Perkins !” She made her appearance. “ Is my 
mother down there?” 

u No, miss ; she has gone out, and asked me to 
give you this.” She took from her pocket a piece of 
paper, and as she came up the steps said, “ My mind 


234 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


misgives me, miss, that something wasn’t right with 
Mrs. Simpson. She was all a-crying when she come 
down and handed me the note and said, ( Will you 
give this to Mononfong?’ That’s a curious name 
of yours, miss.” 

I took the little awkwardly-folded note, and 
while I opened it my heart gave a mighty bound, 
for through blots and crooked characters I read : 

“ Mon Enfant : I go away ! Think not I love 
you not. I can look not in you. Mai heureux! 
I mean it not, but I offend you much. So je va 
allez vous to Richmond. Happy may you be ! I 
see you not any more. Think not of me. 

“ Adieu, mon ange. Le bon Dieu bless you ! 

“ Je vous aime, voire m&re, 

“Matilde Dalrymple.” 

For the first time in my life I fainted away. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

NEAR THE OATES OF DEATH 

D EAR MAXY : I do not know how to de- 
scribe what followed, it is all so weird and 
dreamy. I seemed sometimes to be at Woodlawn 
and living over the old scenes, but in a blurred and 
indistinct way, things getting mixed up and people 
changing places just as in a dream. One moment 
we were all boys and girls again and playing on 
the lawn or laughing over some of Tom’s absurd 
jokes, when suddenly, without warning, I would 
feel myself dragged forcibly away, sometimes by one 
person and then by another. Now poor harmless 
Mr. Perkins was the tyrant, then Eva, but oftenest 
my mother. Once — such an absurd idea ! — Eva 

tore me away from Harry without his having the 
least power to prevent it, and in spite of my shrieks 
and cries crammed me down in a dark hole and 
stamped furiously on my head, screaming down the 
hole to me, “ You wish to prevent me from marry- 
ing Mr. Perkins, but you shall not !” and I found 
the hole was the canal-boat, and my mother was 
there, and said to me, “ Qu’est-ce que c’est f What is 

235 


236 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


de matter ?” Then the negro woman came up and 
offered us loathsome food, which I refused ; and 
when I did so, she held me, and in spite of my 
vigorous resistance rammed a spoon down my throat, 
saying, with Mrs. Perkins’s voice, “ You must take 
it, Miss Simpson, to make you well.” Next, Police- 
man Brown was standing by me holding my hand, 
and I, insulted by his familiarity, struggled to get it 
away from him, when he said very gently, “ I am 
only feeling your pulse, my dear,” and I tried to 
look up at him ; but my eyes were unsteady, and 
he wavered before me. I saw a white head, though, 
and found Policeman Brown had changed to dear 
grandpapa. So I just sobbed and cried, “ Oh, grand- 
papa, I am so happy !” and sank off to sleep. 

Sometimes I was vaguely conscious of my mother 
beside me sobbing and crying, and saying in her 
broken way that she had killed me, and calling on 
God for help, and then I would sink down — down 
— down, until voices sounded far off and indis- 
tinct. 

One day, when these violent changes in the scenes 
through which I so rapidly passed were followed by 
this sinking out of sight, I thought I was dying. 
You were on the bed by me, and Harry and grand- 
ma and grandpa and Eva and Aunt Mary were all 
there, but, though around the bed, I could not get 
near to them. I was going away, and could not 
grasp their hands, though I tried so eagerly. I 


NEAR THE GATES OF DEATH. 


237 


seemed floating away, and suddenly, while straining 
my eyes to catch the last sight of all I loved on 
earth, there broke upon me a new atmosphere so 
bright that at first I was dazzled ; but as my eyes 
became accustomed to it I saw it was full of bright 
forms which seemed to have the sun shining through 
and through them. There was something — a moun- 
tain, I suppose, whose top was up in the skies, and 
its sides were covered with these angelic figures going 
backward and forward, and three of them came and 
stooped over me, and, kissing me, said, “ Sweet child, 
come with us,” and I knew they were my own grand- 
papa and grandmamma and father. And oh, there 
was such a chorus of beautiful voices singing ! 

u Where am I ?” I asked as I was lifted in the 
arms of my three attendant spirits. 

u In the land of the redeemed,” said my father — 
“ saved through the blood of the Lamb and then, 
as if the word “ saved ” were a sudden inspiration, 
they all burst out into a joyous cry : “ He hath re- 
deemed us to God by his own precious blood and 
the chorus was taken up by countless voices : “ Glory 
to God in the highest ! On earth peace, good-will 
toward men !” and then I was taken up and borne 
through the air until we came to a beautiful city 
with walls and towers and pearly gates, all irra- 
diated with this beautiful light which seemed to 
shine through everything, making it transparent. 
As we came near, the gates opened, and louder and 


238 


UNDER TEE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


sweeter were the voices which floated from within, 
singing, u Glory to God in the highest ! On earth 
peace, good-will toward men !” I seemed to hear a 
soft rustling like the wings of birds and the mellow 
sound of harp-strings, but the gates opened only 
halfway, and filling up the space between them there 
stood a beautiful majestic figure with a crown in 
his hand and a light about his head. He smiled 
upon me so sweetly as he held the crown over my 
head and extended his other hand toward me. Then 
1 knew it was my Saviour and that I was in heaven, 
and, falling down at his feet, I cried aloud, “ Saved ! 
saved !” and my voice caught the anthem which 
rang through heaven. 

I shouted with the rest, 

“ Glory to God in the highest ! On earth peace, 
good-will toward men !” 

Then the Saviour spoke, and his voice was sweet 
and tender and loving, as he said, 

“ Dear child, thy work is not yet done. Return 
to earth, take up thy cross; and when thou hast 
overcome thou shall receive this crown of glory 
and he held the crown just above my head. 

Maxy, though I could not bear to come back, 
such a feeling of sweet submission filled me that I 
only bowed my head and said, 

“ Not my will, O Lord, but thine be done.” 

Then I felt soft kisses upon my cheek and lips and 
brow, and the voices of my loved ones said, “ Fare- 


NEAR TEE GATES OF DEATH. 


239 


well, precious child, for a little while,” and my 
father whispered, “ Bring my poor Matilde and Eva 
with you.” 

Then I seemed gradually to come out of the light 
and the beauty ; and when I opened my eyes, it was 
upon a dark little room with a faint light shaded in 
the corner, and with some one bending above me 
and holding my wrist. 

When I tried to move, it was as if I were bound 
down to the bed by thongs, as I could not stir; 
then a cool hand was laid on my head and a voice 
said to me, “ Be quiet, child,” and, looking intently 
at him, I found the face was strange. It was a 
man with gray hair, but not grandpapa. I was 
half conscious of hearing him say, “ She will recov- 
er,” and then a half-softened exclamation of thank- 
fulness in broken English, followed by choking sobs 
as they hurried my mother out of the room. 

Mrs. Perkins put a cup to my lips and said, 

“ Drink, Miss Simpson ; it will make you well.” 

So I came back to earth, Maxy, and gradually a 
recollection of the real life returned to me. My 
mother beside me, I said, 

“ Mother, he — my father ! I have seen him ! 
He says I must bring you with me to heaven.” 

Mother thought I was still in delirium, and said, 

“ Talk not, mon enfant ; we go not yet.” 

“ No ; so the Saviour said, mother. A little while, 
and then my crown of glory.” 


240 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


My mother gave a little cry of dismay, and I 
heard her tell Mrs. Perkins that I was wild to-day 
again, but I was not — only very weak. 

Oh what a nurse one’s mother is in sickness ! 
Even my poor mother’s hand was softer and ten- 
derer than that of anybody else. I used to turn 
from Mrs. Perkins’s manipulations with longing for 
the touch which had so much love in it. 

Days passed before I had memory enough to call 
up events which transpired immediately before my 
illness ; but one day, when, as usual, my mother 
was beside me, as I looked at her it seemed to me 
that there was something strange in her being there. 
I said to her, 

“ But why are you here ? You were gone. How 
did you get back ?” 

Then, with many tears, she told me in her sad 
broken language how she had often felt as if for my 
sake she must go far away and leave me free ; of 
how on that last day, when she had so grieved me — 
so she tenderly expressed it, sparing me any blame 
— she knew she was best away, and had determined 
to go while I was out ; of how she had w r andered 
about all day so wretched, and had returned at 
nightfall only to look once more on the house which 
held her child, and had suddenly encountered Mr. 
Perkins. He had told her of the desperate illness 
which had seized me when I read her note, and then 
she had become wild with grief at the thought that 


NEAR THE GATES OF DEATH. 241 

she had dealt one more blow to my life — had per- 
haps killed me. She had come back and established 
herself at my bedside and listened to my dreadful 
ravings. I cannot do justice to her story, Maxy 
dear, it was so simple and touching, and displayed 
so much of the love which filled her heart for me. 
I could only reach out my hand and take hers in 
mine, and she covered it with tears and kisses. 

Suddenly giving vent to a thought, I exclaimed, 

“ The package, the package ! Oh, what must she 
think ? How long have I been sick ?” 

Three weeks had passed. 

Mrs. Perkins was summoned, and produced the 
bundle of white merino and floss silk. I was so 
weak that I suffered intensely from the thought of 
how Mrs. Sollis was misjudging me, and I could not 
be content until I saw my mother seated at the win- 
dow in full view, in her hands the pure fabric, upon 
which she rapidly wrought fairy-like wreaths of 
lilies and pansies ; and as I saw the work progress- 
ing toward completion I became calmer with the 
thought that the kind lady would not long misun- 
derstand the young girl in whom she had expressed 
such generous confidence. 

At last the work was finished ; and one day, 
when Mr. Perkins came up to dinner, I begged him 
to show my mother where to find the place as des- 
ignated on the card, and she started off with him, 
elated at the prospect of doing something for me. 

16 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 

T HE family of Mr. David Sollis are assembled 
at the table eagerly disposing of a most lux- 
urious breakfast. Mr. Sollis’s portly form bears 
testimony to the uniform good cheer in which he in- 
dulges, and his broad, merry face bears as indubita- 
ble witness to his good humor. At the present 
moment it is expanding with laughter, and his 
hearty “ Ha ! ha !” is re-echoed by a bevy of young 
Sollises who adorn both sides of the table. The 
only person of the company who does not seem to 
enjoy the joke is the lady of the house, and the rea- 
son is soon apparent : the joke is against herself ; and 
it is a very rare thing that one really enjoys a laugh 
in such circumstances. 

Mr. Sollis had just asked, 

“ By the by, my dear, has your workwoman ever 
brought home Annie’s dress ?” 

Mrs. Sollis might have laughed, possibly, if it 
had been the first time this interrogation had been 
propounded ; but when she had had to answer it 
242 


MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 


243 


every day for two weeks, no wonder she found it a 
little tiresome. So regularly, indeed, was it brought 
to the table that the children would have missed it 
as much as a favorite dish. 

Mrs. Sollis only answered, with a quiet expression 
of vexation, 

“ No ; I have not received it.” 

“ Poor Annie !” said the gentleman, with much 
pity and patting the head of a flaxen-haired little 
girl who occupied the high chair on his right. “ Did 
mother give away her pretty dress to a beggar-wom- 
an ? Never mind !” 

“ Mr. Sollis, for shame !” and the lady’s gentle 
face flushed with positive anger. 

“ Why, my dear, what is the matter ? I thought 
you did ;” and Mr. Sollis looked the picture of in- 
jured innocence. 

“ Mr. Sollis, I have told you a hundred times at 
least that that young girl was as much a lady as your 
own daughter* here and Mrs. Sollis pointed to a 
young girl beside her. 

“ Oh, mother !” remonstrated the young lady. 
“ Don’t compare me with a thief, if you please. — 
Now, father, do you think she ought?” 

“ No, Pet, I do not ; but this mother of yours 
doesn’t mean anything by these little eccentricities. 
She is better than most of us, after all and Mr. 
Sollis got up and went all the way round the table 
to bestow a kiss of peace. 


244 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


But Mrs. Sollis was really worried, and resisted 
her husband’s effort at reconciliation, saying, half 
laughing, half crying, 

“No, David; I will not kiss you. You always 
do this — tease me to death and then think you make 
up for it all by kissing me.” 

“But, my dear Laura,” said Mr. Sollis, still 
laughing, “ I am the one aggrieved. You take the 
money I provide for clothing for the family and 
strew it broadcast, and then think I ought to ask 
your forgiveness.” 

“ Papa,” whispered David the second, coming up 
behind, “ please tell about the deaf-and-dumb man. 
That’s so funny !” 

“‘ Ha, ha ! Well, my son, it is a good true story, 
I admit. — My dear, our son remembers the case of 
the dumb man.” 

Mrs. Sollis could not help smiling. 

“Ah ! I see you have not forgotten it. — But, 
Pet, you never heard it, did you?” 

“ Hundreds of times,” laughed Pet. “ But I am 
just as anxious to hear it as if I never had done so. 
Go on ; I am all attention.” 

“ Well, Pet, this good woman — my wife and your 
mother — one of her philanthropic days met in the 
street a biped erect who stopped her and, pointing to 
mouth and ears, signified that he could neither hear 
nor speak. The tender sympathies of my wife were 
at once awakened. ‘ Poor fellow !’ she said ; ‘ how 


MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 


245 


can I help you ?’ He made a circular movement in 
the palm of his hand, to convey to her the idea that 
he would not refuse a piece of silver if it were offered 
to him. Your mother, Pet, at once took out a silver 
half dollar and laid it in the outstretched hand, say- 
ing tenderly, ‘My poor fellow, can’t you speak a 
word ?’ — ‘ Not a word/ said the man ; and Mrs. 
Sollis, after adding another fifty cents to the first, 
to express additional commiseration, left him, and 
never thought until she was three squares off that 
during their intercourse the man had showed symp- 
toms of both hearing and being able to speak, and 
then she turned back and rushed to the place where 
she had left him, confidently expecting she would 
find him there — which she did not; and now she 
will not even give a cent to the deaf-and-dumb 
asylum, because she is sure the inmates are all im- 
postors — that everybody can speak if he chooses.” 

There was a perfect chorus of laughter, in which 
Mrs. Sollis joined heartily, declaring the story too 
good not to laugh at, and all true, too. 

“ How,” said Mr. Sollis, kissing her without any 
difficulty, “ this time thus I bury the past. I will 
to-day get Annie a new dress ; I will never allude 
to the little gift to your street-friend if you, on your 
part, will promise not to allow yourself to be taken 
in by every impostor who walks about on two legs. 
—What is it, John?” 

The servant had opened the door, and stood re- 


246 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


spectfully waiting a pause in the conversation to 
announce his business : 

“ A lady at de door want to see misstis ; got some 
work for her.” 

Mrs. Sollis started up and clapped her hands; 
Mr. Sollis looked as if about to be deprived of his 
very best joke; the young people sided variously 
with mother and father. Only little Annie lisped, 

“ ’Tis my jes.” 

“Is she a young and pretty lady, John?” asked 
his mistress. 

“ Oh no, misstis ; she is old an’ not so much a 
lady. Talks curis, like a furriner.” 

The laugh was turned. 

“ Let her be brought in here, at any rate ; I am 
tired of this game of cross-questions,” said David 
the first; and John went out, and soon returned 
with a plainly-dressed little gray-haired woman 
with a restless, timid air which might be accounted 
for by the fact of her being unexpectedly ushered 
into so large a company as she found upon her 
entrance. 

“ Ees madame here ?” she asked, with unmistak- 
able French accent.” 

Mrs. Sollis stepped forward, smiled and took from 
the stranger’s hand a package. She opened it, and 
exclamations of admiration broke from all at the 
exquisite work. She turned triumphantly toward 
her husband ; and if ever a woman’s face said, “ I 


MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 


247 


told you so !” without any assistance from her tongue, 
hers did. Little Annie climbed down from her high 
chair to see her beautiful “ jes.” 

“ You come from Miss Simpson ?” Mrs. Sollis 
inquired. 

“ Oui, madame. Ma fille est tres malade .” In 
her embarrassment Mrs. Dalrymple forgot to drop 
her French. 

“ Is ill !” exclaimed Mrs. Sollis. 

“Ah, so seak ! For one, two, tree weeks she 
know not what she say ; she was — what you call 
it ? — wild.” 

“ Ah, yes ! I see. She was delirious. Poor 
child ! I do not wonder. The day I saw her I 
observed that she was pale one moment and the 
next the flush would mount on her face,” said kind 
Mrs. Sollis. “ Is she better ?” 

“ Yees. She remembare noting for so long time ; 
den dis week she remembare. I do it ; I bring it. 
Dat is all.” 

“ Your daughter, did you say she was ?” said Mr. 
Sollis, speaking for the first time. 

“ Yees, my daughter. I deserve it not. She ees 
good to me — one ange . I luf her.” 

“Why, I did not think your daughter was 
French,” said Mrs. Sollis. 

“ Non ; she Amerique. She nefare see Paris.” 

Then, suddenly remembering that she was on 
dangerous ground, and that if she revealed who 


248 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


she was Lin might be forcibly taken from her, her 
face flushed, and, rising, she turned to go. But 
Mrs. Soil is stopped her to give her the money due 
for her work, and, getting the location of the house 
from her, promised to go and see Lin that very day. 

I suppose a woman is always particularly happy 
to get the better of her husband in a contest — it 
seems to be natural — but, after all, the great source 
of Mrs. Sollis’s pleasure was in having her own 
mind relieved about the integrity of the young 
girl who had so much interested her. As for Mr. 
Sollis, his first words as the French woman left the 
room were, 

“ Laura, whom does she remind you of? Some- 
how or other, she takes me back to the past, and for 
the life of me I can’t think to what point. Can 
you not help me?” 

“ No, indeed ; I never saw any one she reminded 
me of. I only know that never were mother and 
daughter more unlike than these two. And I 
know another thing — that I am going to put on my 
bonnet right now and go to see about that child. I 
fear they are very poor.” 

“ Well, my dear,” said her husband, “ as an atone- 
ment to you for my persecution, here is some money 
for you to sow round the city. It is such a pleasure 
to you that I cannot help ministering to it.” 

“And to you too, David,” said Mrs. Sollis, laugh- 
ing. “ You make me the excuse, but you would be 


MISPLACED CONFIDENCE. 


249 


very sorry to have a wife who would not act as your 
almoner ; and now you want only to secure my spar- 
ing nothing on my 'proteg&e.” 

Mr. Sollis laughed and blushed, as if he had been 
caught stealing a sheep, and then went off to his 
store feeling very secure that his charities were in 
such faithful hands ; but many times during the day 
he asked himself, “ Whom does that French woman 
remind me of?” 

Let us settle that question for the benefit of the 
reader. 

The fact is there was no one, if choice had been 
given Mr. Sollis, whom he would rather have be- 
friended than the child of George Dalrymple. He 
had been a poor boy in Richmond when the elder 
Dalrymple took him by the hand, gave him a busi- 
ness education and started him in life. He was an 
inmate of Mr. Dalrymple’s house while George was 
in Europe. He was still there when George brought 
home his bride, and was cognizant of all the circum- 
stances attending the unfortunate marriage; and 
although Mrs. Dalrymple did not retain a trace of 
her former self, yet so subtile are the tones of the 
human voice that it remains the same through 
all the ravages of time and sorrow. Thus it was 
that the French woman carried Mr. Sollis back to 
the past. 


CHAPTER XX. 
LIN SPEAKS. 


HEN my mother came back, Maxy, she 



* » handed me the money for the work with so 
happy a face that I was touched by it. And a lib- 
eral conpensation it was, being five dollars, though 
three was the sum agreed upon at the depository. 
Then, seating herself beside me, my mother said, 
“ Mon enfant , dat gentilhomme — I have seen 


him.” 


I turned inquiringly toward her. 

“ De husband of de lady for de work. I see him 
in Richmond. He was friend to your fader.” 

“And did he know you ?” I asked, eagerly. 
“Non! non! None know me for de beautiful 
Madame Dalrymple. But he look at me all de 
time. He remember something, but he know me 


That day dear Mrs. Sollis came to see me. She 
is so sweet, Maxy — such a motherly, tender woman ! 
I just felt as if I wanted to lay my poor head on 
her bosom and tell her all my troubles. I did tell 
her this much — that I was entirely without means 


LIN SPEAKS. 


251 


and owed for the attendance of the physician during 
my illness and for my board to Mrs. Perkins. All 
this had given me great trouble, as I was so unwill- 
ing to use that money of Eva’s. I felt as if I would 
a great deal rather take it from any one else than 
to allow Eva to get it from her husband on false 
pretences. 

When I told Mrs. Sollis all about my troubles, 
without mentioning the money I had, she stroked 
back my hair and kissed my cheek, and told me not 
to worry about anything, she would see to it all ; 
and, since my mother was such a beautiful needle- 
woman, she could procure her plenty of work from 
her circle of acquaintances. As for me, she said, 
perhaps I could come and help her to teach her two 
little girls, Mary and Annie ; they were only little 
things, and would not give me much trouble. Such 
a beautiful, delightful plan ! Maxy, she wanted me 
to come and live with her, but I declined leaving 
my mother ; and so as soon as I get well I am to go 
there for four hours a day. Oh, surely God ar- 
ranged all this for me. That is the great pleasure 
about it — that he is taking notice of all my little 
trials and providing for me. 

Maxy, I feel so differently about all this since 
that strange vision of heaven — as if this world were 
only a school in which we are being trained for heav- 
en. I never again can be as I have been ; even 
to be happy with Harry would not make me feel as 


252 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


if I had not greater happiness to look forward to. 
And that whisper of my father’s as we parted lin- 
gers about me, and that is a trouble too. Let me 
tell it to you. 

I do try to teach my mother about heavenly 
things. I read the Bible to her, and, although I do 
not know how to talk very much, I do tell her a 
good many things ; but it is so hard ! If she would 
only ask me some questions or seem to take an in- 
terest, it would help, but she doesn’t. She will sit 
and listen all day if she thinks it gives me pleasure, 
but nothing seems to take any hold of her mind. 

Now, yesterday, after reading to her, I said, 

“ Mother, you know when I first began to get 
well I told you I had seen my father.” 

“ Oui ; oui y mon enfant. De fevare and she 
touched her head to signify that it was a part of 
my delirium. 

“ No, you mistake,” I said ; “ it was not the fever. 
I was in earnest and in my senses. I had a vision 
of heaven, and I saw my father, and he said to me 
that I must bring Matilde and Eva with me.” 

She started up in alarm, evidently thinking I was 
having a relapse ; but I laid my head on her arm 
and said, 

“ Mother, don’t go. I do want to talk to you.” 

She sat down as obediently as usual. 

“Mother,” I said, “you know we all have to 
die.” 


LIN SPEAKS. 


253 


“ Oui, mon enfant, in long time. I want not to 
die.” 

“ It may be long or short, mother ; we cannot tell. 
You know that I, young as I am, was very near 
dying when I was sick.” 

She broke into a passion of tears as her only 
answer. 

“ Mother,” I said, “ don’t cry. If you love me 
so, cannot you thank God that he spared me to 
you ?” 

“ Oui, mon enfant ;” and then she fell on her 
knees before me and clasped her hands, and, look- 
ing up, said, “I tank de bon Dieu dat mon ch&re 
enfant n’est pas morte.” 

I know it was only done in obedience to my 
wishes, but I was touched by it. And that is the 
way it always is : her desire to give me pleasure is 
the highest aspiration of her nature. 

I suppose the short interval she passed with my 
father was the only time in her life she was ever 
brought in contact with anything savoring of religious 
influence, and then — poor mother ! — she was so full 
of other thoughts she did not have any to devote to 
God. I suppose if I were not so weak and igno- 
rant I could do her some good, but I don’t know 
how to go about it, she is so utterly ignorant. 

The kind, good doctor came to see me to-day. 

His name is Dr. S , and he seems so interested 

in my recovery ! I said to him, 


254 


UNDER THE PRUNING -KNIFE. 


“ Doctor, when you come again, will you please 
bring me your account? I cannot settle it now, 
but after a while — ” 

“ But, my child, I have no account against you. 
Do you think I would let such a poor young child 
as you are work her life away to pay me money for 
time which has been well paid for in seeing you up 
again ?” 

“ But, doctor,” I said, “ I would not be content 
not to pay you, and after a while — ” 

“Well, after a while will be time enough to 
talk about it. If you ever are in a situation to 
pay me without your working for it, I will send 
you my bill ; until then it is not the least worth 
while to ask me for it. And, moreover, if you 
don’t send for me when you require my services, I 
shall cut your acquaintance. Pshaw, child ! don’t 
cry. Why, those are things that happen every day 
in the life of a physician. I ain only casting my 
bread upon the waters;” and he went away. 

That was a comfort to me. My heavenly Father 
can pay him ; I trust it to him. Surely it is he 
who inclines the hearts of so many to be kind to 
me, ugly and unattractive as I am, away from my 
friends and poor ; but I couldn’t help hating to be 
under obligations to people. 

Mrs. Perkins informed me that Mrs. Sollis had 
paid her all we owed her and told her not to let 
me be anxious or worried about it, or about any- 


LIN SPEAKS. 


255 


thing else. I will just try to rest and feel that my 
Father will take care of me. 

A week later . — Two days ago, dear Maxy, I went 
out for the first time. It was creeping, to be sure, 
but I felt as if I must go and see if Eva had come ; 
her new house is not so very far away. Mother 
insisted upon going with me, but I would not agree, 
as I wanted to see Eva alone. I waited until I 
knew that Dr. Harrison would have gone out, and 
then started. I had to stop several times before I 
reached the house; it seems so strange for me to 
be creeping about like an old woman ! 

Well, Maxy, at last I stood at the door of the 
house — Eva’s house — ringing the bell. A very 
stylishly-dressed negro opened it, and I asked if 
Mrs. Harrison were at home. 

“ Mis’ Ha’son not very well dis morning, and 
begs to be excused,” was the answer. 

I was prepared for this, and handed him a note, 
saying I would wait for the answer. 

Maxy, I must look poor and common indeed, for 
actually this negro was going to leave me at the 
door while he took my note up ; but I was not go- 
ing to allow that, so I walked right by him into the 
parlors, leaving him staring at me. I never felt 
more disposed to declare who I was, and put an 
end to his impertinence. 

Soon a handsomely-dressed maid-servant came 
and said, 


256 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Mrs. Harrison being very unwell, will you walk 
up to her room ?” 

Actually, Maxy, I trembled so I could hardly 
get up the stairs, but soon Eva and I were locked 
in each other’s arms. I think I must have fainted, 
or something — only think how good for nothing I 
am ! — for I found myself lying on a sofa and Eva 
over me bathing my face with eau-de-cologne. Then 
I burst into hysterical sobbing which I could not help. 

“ Lin — my poor Lin !” said Eva. “ Don’t do so. — 
Oh, what am I to do ? Some one will come in and 
find us, and then all will be known and we will be 
disgraced. — Please, Lin, control yourself. Think 
of me ! How dreadful it will be !” 

“ Eva,” I said, sitting up, “ the best thing which 
could happen to us would be for your husband to 
come in now and face an explanation.” 

She fairly screamed with horror. 

“ Lin,” she said, “ I would take my own life rather 
than outlive such an avowal. He knows nothing at 
all, and only think what it would be to have to say 
to him, ‘ I have deceived you ’ !” 

“ Terrible, Eva, I admit,” I answered — “ the way 
of transgressors is hard — but certainly you cannot 
expect me to live all my life as I am doing now in 
order to save you from telling your husband the 
truth ?” 

She bent her head, and said not a word. 

“ Eva,” I continued, “ is that your idea — that my 


LIN SPEAKS. 


257 


life is to wear out in this hiding, secret way in order 
to cover your sin ?” 

“ Oh, Lin,” she said, falling down on the floor be- 
side me, “ what am I to do ? The more I know of 
my husband, the more do I feel that he must never 
learn this of me. Pity me, my sister ! I confess it 
is the extreme of selfishness, but I cannot help it.” 

I was perfectly dumb with amazement. Such an 
idea had never occurred to me ; I had always put a 
period to my trial. First when Eva was married, 
and then when long years had passed and in the 
course of nature my mother should leave me, I 
thought of going back to Woodlawn — dear Wood- 
lawn ! — to spend such peaceful years to my spirit in 
the heart of my home as would enable me to recover 
from the trials of these sad days. There was a. sort 
of horror upon me at the idea of this burial of my 
life which my sister proposed. 

At last Eva spoke : 

“ I don’t want you to go away, Lin — at least, I 
do not ask that now. In such a city as this you 
can easily keep out of sight, and I will see you all 
the time. I will come and see you as often as I 
can with safety, and you can come here at such 
times as I shall be alone.” 

“ When I will not be seen by your fashionable 
friends, I suppose?” I said, with a bitterness I 
could not suppress. 

“ Oh, Lin, how little you understand me ! I am 
17 


258 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


laying all sorts of plans of how I can minister to 
your comfort and — and hers ; and — 

“ Thank you,” I said, “ for your efforts. So far 
as I can see, your plans are all the other way.” 

“No, Lin. I could send you money regularly, 
and sometimes I would send a carriage to take out 
you and that woman.” 

“ Your mother and mine, Eva,” I said. 

“ I will never call her so,” said Eva, with com- 
pressed lips. 

“ I not only give her the name, but I love her, 
thank God !” I said. “ Yet let me tell you at once, 
Eva, this plan of sending me money is thus an- 
swered ;” and I threw in her lap the one hundred 
dollars. “I never will take one cent of money 
from you unless you tell your husband how you 
dispose of it.” 

“ What folly, Linda Dalrymple !” said Eva, tak- 
ing up the money and pressing it upon me. “ I have 
plenty. Dr. Harrison makes me an allowance and 
never asks me how I spend it ; and I have enough, 
and to spare.” 

“That has nothing to do with it,” I said. “I 
will never take a cent of it, depend upon it.” 

“How do you propose to live? You must in- 
deed be fertile in resources, to be able to assume 
these heroics.” 

“I am provided for,” I said; “God has most 
wonderfully taken care of my mother and myself.” 


LIN SPEAKS. 


259 


“You certainly don’t look as if you had been 
very well taken care of. You are fearfully changed, 
Lin.” 

In Eva’s voice as she said this there was a little 
accent of tenderness which completely broke me 
down. 

“ I have been very ill, Eva,” I said — “ for three 
weeks I did not know anybody or anything — but 
I was better then than now, because I was living 
over the dear old life again and I broke into bit- 
ter uncontrollable tears. 

“ Poor Lin !” said Eva, smoothing back my 
hair. 

I was actually afraid to submit to her caresses, 
Maxy, lest I should bind myself to her wishes ; so, 
starting up, I said, 

“ Eva, let me tell you that it is perfectly useless 
for you to beg me to yield to your selfish desires. 
I never will be a party to your deception, which will 
be your ruin, body and soul. Let me tell you, Eva, 
what happened to you in my illness and then I 
told her of my strange vision. “ Yow, Eva,” I add- 
ed, “ I shall always believe that this was something 
more than the fantasies of delirium. I believe God 
sent it to help me in my hard life, and it does. I 
am doing my best, Eva, to win my crown of glory 
by faithfulness to the end, and I cannot do that if I 
become a party to your sin. Besides, Eva, I want 
to take you with me, as my father said. Oh, Eva, 


260 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


be entreated ! Do what is right and leave the con- 
sequences to God.” 

“ Never, if what you call right is telling my hus- 
band everything. Eternity is too vague; it does 
not take the least hold upon me. The happiness of 
this present life is what I care for — now — and my 
own sister will not lend me a helping hand to attain 
even that.” 

“ No,” I said, “ not in the way you propose, cer- 
tainly. For the reasons which influenced me to 
leave Richmond when I did — that is, the fear of 
bringing trouble upon our friends — I have no idea 
of making any change in my situation now. I 
believe that as long as our poor mother lives my 
duty is to attend upon her — God shows me that 
every day — but should that duty be removed I 
would at once go back again to grandpa and — 
Harry.” 

“ ‘ Harry * !” exclaimed Eva. “ It is that silly 
affair at last, is it, which is the root of all this cant 
you have been dosing me with ? That is the rea- 
son why you will not do as I wish ? I thought you 
had done with Harry ?” 

“ Perhaps I too thought so at one time,” I said, 
provoked almost beyond endurance at her manner, 
“ but I have come to the conclusion, since I have 
found what a good God I have watching over my 
affairs, that maybe he will restore my dear boy and 
myself to each other ; and if he does, I do feel as 


LIN SPEAKS. 


261 


if it would be almost the beginning of heaven to 
me.” 

“ Well,” said Eva, “ all I can say is that if you 
want me to get ready for another world you will 
have to remove the terror of my present life. I 
have no time to think of heaven now.” 

And so my visit ended. Maxy, I crept away 
weak and sick, leaving Eva in her beautiful home 
surrounded by luxuries, the petted and spoiled child 
of wealth, and yet for the wealth of the world I 
would not exchange my lot for hers. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE “LITERARY MESSENGER” 

E IGHTEEN months had sadly passed away 
since the mysterious disappearance of Linda 
Dalrymple, and from the period of Eva’s marriage, 
which happened five months later, no news had 
reached us of her. The veil of mystery which was 
thrown over the whole affair had never been in the 
least withdrawn, and the effect of the prolonged 
suspense upon the different members of the family 
had been markedly sad. The dear old judge had 
both aged and saddened, and there were times when, 
coming in, he would throw himself down in a chair 
with a sigh which I knew was due to the recalling 
to mind of his pet child. 

We can stand anything better than uncertainty, 
and it was this in the fate of Lin which wrung our 
hearts. Bright, cheerful Mrs. Wallace was wincing 
under it, though I hardly think she suffered as much 
as the judge, and our poor Harry lost all interest in 
everything. About him all the time there was a 
restless, wandering look for which there was no diffi- 
culty in accounting. 

262 


THE “LITERARY MESSENGER* 


263 


Neither had Eva in her new home recovered from 
the effects of the shock. She spent at Woodlawn 
the summer following her marriage, but the state 
of her health and her failing beauty made her an 
object of the deepest solicitude to us all, and to her 
husband especially. 

With the finished story before us, we can think 
of many things which might never have been no- 
ticed otherwise. One was Eva’s clinging devotion 
to her husband ; there was a sort of appealing man- 
ner toward him which was very different from what 
we expected. She was restless and unhappy when 
he was out of her sight, and once, when he left her 
to return to Baltimore on business for a few days, 
she clung to him, and was as much distressed as if 
the separation was to be for a lifetime. Sometimes 
I fancied he wearied of all this, but generally he was 
very tender to her and anxious about her. Many 
were the consultations he held with us all about the 
recovery of Linda, but nothing was effected by them, 
and a sad silence fell around our darling’s name, 
while our hearts were brimming over with thoughts 
of her. We surrounded her with all the sacred 
reverence with which we adorn our dead, and min- 
gled with it a hope of restoration on this side of the 
river which we cannot have in the loss of our dear 
ones by death. 

I still remained with the Wallaces, because I had 
no other home, and because they would not hear of 


264 


UNDER THE PR IJNING-KNIFE. 


any other arrangement. I was inseparably con 
nected in their minds with Lin ; and whenever I 
spoke of going away, some one of them would say, 
“ It cannot be. You must stay to welcome our 
poor Lin back again.” 

Miss Mary Tazewell’s faith continued to be a 
great support to us all. She held up before us at 
all times the thought that our darling was in better 
hands than ours, that in some way she was in pur- 
suit of what she considered a duty, and God — her 
Father and ours — was going to take care of her and 
bring her back to us again. 

Suddenly, at the close of our eighteen months of 
trial, there was a clue to the handling of the mystery. 
It happened thus. We were very busy getting ready 
for our flitting from Richmond to Woodlawn, and 
Mrs. Wallace was up to her eyes in work — a condi- 
tion of affairs which especially delighted her. She 
was perfectly insatiable in the matter of stirring, 
energetic employment, and always managed to draw 
all the other members of the family into the vortex 
in which she was whirling. One day I was helping 
about the packing of woolens in camphor, and was 
down upon my knees before a big chest, when I 
heard Harry’s step in the hall quick and buoyant, 
so different from what it had been in the past weary 
months that I started up and exclaimed, 

“ Harry has heard something !” 

He came bounding upstairs two steps at a time, 



News of Lin 


Page 265. 






THE “LITERARY MESSENGER: 


265 


and into the room — his mother’s room, where I was. 
Dear suffering, brave boy ! how his face beamed as 
he held out a Literary Messenger to me, saying, 

“ Hurrah, Maxy ! News ! News of Lin !” 

“ I knew it as soon as I heard your step,” I said, 
laughing and weeping at the same time ; and we all 
gathered about him, crying, 

“ Where is she? What is it? When will she 
be here?” 

“ Oh, you all are too rapid,” he said, with a little 
fall of countenance when he thought of the meagre 
story he had to tell, and of how little it would fill 
our expectations. “ I have no certain information 
* yet beyond a clue. Look here ;” and he opened the 
book and pointed to the title of a story — “ The 
Winter in the Mountains.” I seized the book and 
read eagerly. Yes, it was Lin in every line. I 
read through blinding tears. Woodlawn was in it, 
and, although the story was half fiction, she had 
interwoven so many facts in which we had all been 
actors that it left not the least doubt of the writer. 
Harry looked over my shoulder, and the rest clus- 
tered around as I read aloud. 

I had scarcely begun, when Judge and Mrs. Wal- 
lace came in. Mrs. Wallace exclaimed at sight of the 
general idleness, for the maids stood with unpacked 
woolens in their hands, and I, the packer, was sitting 
down reading aloud to the company from a paper- 
backed book, her standing abhorrence. A few words 


266 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


sufficed, however, to add the judge and his wife to my 
auditors, and there we sat, eager, absorbed, as if each 
line was to tell us where we should find our loved 
one. Judge Wallace had reached that age when 
tears come easily even to the sterner sex, and as he 
sat and listened and heard the dear voice of the child 
of his love speaking in every line, the drops fell over 
his face unheeded. 

There was a pair of lovers in the story — what 
girl could write without them ? — and we all laughed 
then because they were Lin and Harry ; and there, 
too, were Tom Hastings and coy little Katie Macon, 
their portraits unmistakably drawn. In short, I 
closed the magazine feeling as if we had been read- 
ing a letter from the child, and Judge Wallace 
started up and said, 

“What have you done, Harry? Have you 
traced her?” 

Harry told very circumstantially how he had at 
once gone to the publishers — had seen Edgar Poe, 
and from him obtained possession of the manuscript. 
This he now drew from his pocket — Lin’s unmis- 
takable characters. It was like her portrait to me, 
each familiar dash of the pen bringing her back 
with her copybook before her while I strove to 
evolve order out of the dire confusion in her chi- 
rography. 

Harry said, laughing, 

“And what name do you think she writes under?” 


THE “ LITERARY MESSENGER.' 


267 


We looked our inquiries. 

“ Why, ‘ George Perkins/ ” 

" What a droll idea ! ” we all said, and grandpa 
added, 

“ Lin never did anything quite like other people. 
Most girls of her age would have chosen ‘ Chloe ' 
or ‘ Salvia/ or some such fine affair.” 

There was one thing about it all which struck 
us with a sort of pang : the manuscript came from 
Baltimore. No one spoke a suspicion, unless Mrs. 
Wallace's remark could be called such. She said 
in a reassuring tone, 

“ Well, you know, Lin might easily be in a city 
like Baltimore without Eva's knowing anything 
about it and we all responded in conclusive tones, 

“ Oh, of course !” 

We had not for eighteen months enjoyed so cheer- 
ful a meal as the dinner which followed. The 
silence which had crept about our darling's name 
like the hard coating in which Nature hides the 
delicate bud from the biting frost broke away in the 
spring sunshine of our hopes, and each one recalled 
some incident in which she was the figure in the 
foreground. 

“Do you remember, Ellen, my dear,” said the 
judge, “the day you came to Woodlawn, how we 
found the dear child curled up in the great chair 
in the library with a book, and how conscience- 
stricken she was?” 


268 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“And the day you found your Lady of the Lake 
in the orchard?” said Mrs. Wallace. 

“ How scared she was ! but how bravely she 
owned her fault ! She was the most truthful child 
I ever saw.” 

Then I told about the editorial conference to which 
I had played listener. 

“Yes, I dare say there was a great deal of good 
about Linda,” said Miss Betsey. “I remember 
when I had my headaches she would always come 
in and offer to bathe my head, and probably stum- 
ble over or into something before she got through, 
which would make the pain worse, after all. I hope 
she has been able to conquer her temper.” 

Miss Betsey is still a little acrid, though I think 
age has softened her. She has resigned herself 
now to her fate, and wears dark dresses. 

“And what do you remember, Little Uncle?” 
said pretty Mrs. Hamilton, who was with us. 

Harry was leaning back with such a dreamy, 
happy, hopeful face and a glance which looked both 
backward and forward ! 

“ Oh, so much, Annie !” he said, smiling and 
blushing ; “ but my memories and hopes are alike 
sacred. I start for Baltimore this afternoon.” 

“And I too,” said the judge. 

“And oh, may not I go too?” I begged. “ It is 
on our way to Woodlawn.” 

“ Could you get ready in an hour ?” 


THE “ LITERARY MESSENGER > 


269 


“ In ten minutes,” I answered ; and before the 
permission came I was on my way up stairs. — 
“ Going to see Lin,” I said to the servant who in 
answer to my summons came to assist me. 

“ Thank the Lord !” ejaculated Amy, who was 
Mammy’s daughter. “ I do b’lieve Mammy will 
get well if Miss Lin come home ; she do grieve so 
for her ! En, Miss Ellen, she will have it dat de 
furrin mother is at de bottom of it all.” 

“ Nonsense !” I said, but I could not get the 
idea out of my head. I mentioned it to Harry and 
the judge as we rode down to the station. 

Journeys were not accomplished even by the cars 
as rapidly in those days as now, so we did not reach 
Baltimore until the evening of the second day, and, 
as there were no lightning-conductors then and there 
had been no time to write, we were obliged to take 
Eva and Dr. Harrison by surprise. 

Eva met us in the hall, looking so ethereal that it 
startled us. 

“ What is it ?” she asked, her hand on her heart. 

“ Nothing to frighten you, dearie,” said grandpa, 
taking her into his arms ; “ only news from Lin.” 

He was obliged to clasp his arms close about the 
sinking form, for Eva had fainted. 

“ Poor child !” said grandpapa as he put her in 
her husband’s arms. “ I was too precipitate ; the joy 
is too much for her.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A CHAPTER FROM LIN'S DIARY. 

H, Maxy, this dreary, dreary life ! Am I to go 



V_/ on so for ever, never to see any of you again ? 
Is there no end to my trial. Eighteen months since 
I left home, and I seem no nearer to the end than 
at first. There ! I am murmuring. How ungrate- 
ful, when I can see just the why of it all ! Let me 
go over it ; that always sets me up all right. 

Suppose I had taken my poor mother home that 
day when Eva and I first met her; what would 
have happened ? Grandpa and all would have been 
kind to her even while wincing under the disgrace, 
but we would never have been permitted to stay 
with her, nor would we have wished it. I can see 
it all. Grandpa would have put her ’way off some- 
where where we never would have seen her, and 
then what ? Poor mother ! This strange, beautiful 
mother-love never would have grown up in her 
heart to take the place of the pride and vanity which 
were so natural a result from the circumstances of 
her life. That love has been her salvation. All 
the errors of her past life — the bad propensities en- 


270 


A CHAPTER FROM LIN’S DIARY. 271 


gendered by the circumstances of that life — have 
floated away upon that gentle stream and left not 
a trace behind. No heathen could have been more 
ignorant of the way of salvation than was my poor 
mother, and it seems as if God had just brought her 
home from corrupt Paris and given her to me alone 
to train for heaven. Oh, I do feel thankful, Maxy ! 
I suspect father prayed for her, and I like to feel 
that she was given to me in answer to his prayers. 
Surely no one but he — unless it were good Grand- 
papa Dalrymple — ever did pray for her. 

I have told you somewhere in these pages, Maxy, 
of my despair about ever making her take an in- 
terest in these matters. At last I just began at the 
beginning, teaching her like a little child ; for in 
many things, Maxy, my poor mother is like a little 
child. I discovered I had begun wrong. I expected 
her to feel David’s Psalms and Paul’s Epistles and 
the Revelation just like a real Christian would, but 
I found my mistake ; so I just began at the be- 
ginning of the Bible and read and talked to her 
about it all — the Creation, the Fall and the promise 
of the Saviour — and then I began to show her how 
that promise was accomplished so long after. I 
suppose God showed me how to do it, because, you 
know, such a poor ignorant child as I was never 
could have known else. And it did me as much 
good as it did her, because, you know’, I had to read 
and study so much to know how to teach her. 


272 


UNDER THE FRUNING-KNIFE. 


Dear Mrs. Sollis was a great help to me in this. 
Not that I ever told her anything about my mother’s 
ignorance, but she used to come in when the little 
children had been good and tell them a. Bible story. 
She thought it best, she said, to make it a reward ; 
it had a good effect upon them. 

Well, at last I succeeded in waking up my poor 
mother. She became deeply interested, and it was 
wonderful how her mind seemed to expand to com- 
prehend Bible truths. You see, Maxy, never hav- 
ing had any education and her whole life having 
been given up to frivolities, of course she had had 
no chance. She certainly is more to be pitied than 
blamed. One day I said to her, 

u Mother dear, I want you to pray to God every 
morning and night.” 

“ Oui ! oui !” she said. “ I tank him for mon 
mfant” 

Poor mother ! she has no idea of blessings beyond 
and above that one ; but she learned better after a 
while, and now, Maxy dear, she shames me by her 
simple, childlike faith in Christ. Her love for me 
is not less, but it is subservient to her love for Him 
who sought her out and brought her home. 

One day I never shall forget. I was reading to 
her the parable of the Lost Sheep, and of the shep- 
herd going into the mountain and bringing it home 
on his shoulders rejoicing. She broke out into a 
great cry of joy, and said, 


A CHAPTER FROM LIN’S DIARY. 273 


“Oh, mon enfant , dat is me. Jesus come to 
Paris; dat was my mountain. He find me. Is 
it not so, ma chbre? He bring me home ; he bring 
me to you and then that strange impulsive nature 
of hers underwent one of its most sudden changes, 
and the expression of joy was shaded by a burst of 
tears. But the sun shone through, after all, and 
the rainbow of hope spanned it. 

But, Maxy, I have told you only half of the good 
which has been wrought out by the discipline of the 
past eighteen months — hardly half, because I do not 
think my poor mother is as much benefited by it as 
I am. I think that in a wavering, heedless sort of 
way I was a Christian, though even that is doubt- 
ful. But my life was so happy ! and if Harry and 
I had married, I would have been so well content 
with this world that I would never have been a 
whole-hearted Christian, and I can see that this has 
been just what I needed. It has forced me to think 
of others ; it has made me self-reliant, and, above 
everything else, I have been obliged to learn to 
lean on the arm of my divine Father with all my 
troubles, because I could not bear them alone and 
there was no earthly help for me to lean upon. It 
has taught me to study out the ways of Providence, 
and sometimes my spiritual eyes discern with won- 
derful clearness the needs-be in all of God’s dealings. 

In short, dear Maxy, I have made more progress 
in mv religious life in these eighteen months than I 
18 


274 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


possibly could have made in a lifetime of easy, hap- 
py years such as I had at home ; and, Maxy, though 
it is often dreary and I feel as if a sight of you all 
would make me fresh and new, yet when I ponder 
it over I think I do feel that even if I am never to 
see you all again, if my life ends in this hiding out 
of sight, yet I am not sorry it happened just as it 
did. God knew best, Maxy ; and when he sends 
the heaviest burdens, he does not leave us to bear 
them alone. 

But oh, Maxy, the trouble that is harder to bear 
than any other is about Eva. I used to go to see 
her when she first came to Baltimore ; and although 
there were trials connected with these visits, arising 
from her growing anxiety that I should promise 
her never to let any human being know where or 
who I was, yet it was a comfort to feel, when these 
awful spells of loneliness came over me, that by 
walking a few squares I could see a familiar face — 
one that reminded me of home and happy days; 
and, as Dr. Harrison was sure to be out in the 
morning and I was taken directly to Eva’s room, 
there did not seem to be much danger of a disagree- 
able interruption. But one day poor Eva was more 
ill than usual, and was more pertinacious in insist- 
ing upon my yielding to her wishes. She had said 
to me something which cut me to the heart ; I can- 
not think of it now without a feeling of agony. 
This is what she said : 


A CHAPTER FROM LIN’S DIARY. 275 


“ Linda Dairy mple, I would not be as deceitful 
as you are for anything in the world. You can 
talk very piously of your anxiety about my soul, 
and all that, but let me tell you that if I am lost it 
will be your fault. If my mind w r as only at rest, I 
might be able to think about such things ; but the 
tortures of my present life are so great that I do 
not even fear anything beyond.” 

I said, 

“ I cannot feel, Eva, that encouraging you in false- 
hood to your husband is going to do your soul good.” 

Before I could say anything more the door opened 
and that haughty Miss Harrison sailed into the 
room. Eva’s self-possession was something won- 
derful. She welcomed her sister-in-law with the 
greatest impressment of manner, and then, turning 
to me, said, 

“ You can go now. If I conclude to employ 
you, I will send for you.” 

I wonder she was not afraid to venture on this 
experiment, Maxy ; she certainly risked a great deal. 
For one minute one of my old passions surged over 
me and nearly found vent. We looked into each 
other’s eyes with Miss Harrison standing between us. 
The defiant expression of mine frightened Eva. I 
saw her turn pale and waver, and a pitiful expres- 
sion crept over her face, as if she appealed to me to 
spare her. I could not resist it, and turned and 
went away. 


276 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


As I left the room 1 heard Miss Harrison say, 

“ I hope you don’t think of employing that fine 
lady in the capacity of a servant? I never saw 
such a furious look as she gave you when you dis- 
missed her.” 

I did not hear Eva’s answer. 

The next day brought me this note from Eva : 

“ My dear Lin : Since our narrow escape of 
yesterday, I think you must see yourself that it is 
better for you not to come here. Our meetings, at 
any rate, only produce hard words. You, it is true, 
might make it different, but, since you refuse, the 
talks upon the subject only give additional pain. I 
will be glad to help you in any way I can if you 
will let me know, but I have to say that, as it is 
not safe, I do not want you to come here. 

“ I got letters from home last night. All well. 

“ Your sister, 

“ Eva Harrison.” 

That ended it, Maxy. I never answered her note ; 
I never went to her house again. Every now and 
then, as I am going to or from my work at Mrs. 
Sollis’s, if my mother and myself are walking, I 
see Eva lolling back in her luxurious carriage look- 
ing oh so pale and sad. I own I can only feel pity 
for her. I don’t know whether she sees me or not, 
as I always wear a thick veil ; it is possible she does 


A CHAPTER FROM LIN’S DIARY. 277 


not. Sometimes Dr. Harrison is with her, but of 
course he cannot recognize me through the protec- 
tion my veil affords. Once or twice money has 
come directed to me in Eva's hand — evidence, I 
suppose, that she has some twinges of conscience — 
but I always direct another envelope to her, enclos- 
ing it back, and that is the last of it. 

My work at Mrs. Sollis's is very pleasant ; the 
girls are bright, affectionate little things. Mrs. 
Sollis expresses the greatest satisfaction with their 
progress. Through her influence I have obtained 
three or four music-scholars ; only beginners, Maxy. 

Mother also is almost constantly employed. Her 
skill as a needlewoman has rendered her quite the 
rage, and not only is she delighted to help in our 
support, but she enjoys the work. She has never 
said anything more about practicing her hairdress- 
er's trade, but I ask her every morning to dress 
my hair for me, and she is charmed. She has 
become quite reconciled to her dark clothes, too, 
and in my eyes is a very lovable old lady; for, 
though she is a still young in years, she does not 
look so. Her gray hair she wears in smooth bands 
upon her brow, and her face has such a gentle, meek 
aspect upon it ! She never looks at me without that 
expression of adoration, always with a little depre- 
cating element in it, as if to assure me that the past 
when she had no “ moder in her heart '' has given 
place to a present in which Nature asserts her full 


278 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


sway. I often wonder if she understands our posi- 
tion with regard to Eva ; she seems to shrink from 
mentioning her. Once, when we passed her in her 
carriage, I said, 

“You know who that lady is, do you not, 
mother ?” 

“ Oui, mon enfant , I know. I like not to look at 
her ; de bad past comes to me. I see me wid my 
folly and my sin. You, ma ch&re, look like mon 
pauvre George. I luf you !” 

“ Well,” I said, “ it is very well you are satis- 
fied with me. I don’t think you will often be taken 
back to the past by a sight of Eva.” 

“ No, I want it not,” she said ; “ it is best I tank 
de bon Lieu , mon enfant , dat your age will not be so 
as mine. Ah ! could peoples live again dare lives, 
how different !” 

Later. — Maxy, I have been feeling particularly 
weary of it all lately, and as if some communica- 
tion with you all was absolutely necessary. I could 
not for a long time decide upon a plan, but a few 
days ago I contrived one, and have put it into 
execution. I thought of the Woodlawn News and 
of how Harry and I used to write for it. Why 
could not I write a story for the Literary Messenger 
and just put something in it which would let Harry 
and the rest of you know where it came from, but 
would not be a revelation to any one else? So, 
Maxy, I have done it ; and if any of you read it, 


A CHAPTER VROM LIN’S DIARY. 279 


you will know it comes from your poor lonely Lin, 
whose happiest hours are spent in the beautiful past 
with you all. Sometimes there is a whisper in my 
heart that maybe you have all forgotten me. I have 
faded away from home like the dead. But that whis- 
per is not true, I feel sure ; I am certain that you often 
speak of me. You call me “ Poor Lin !” very ten- 
derly, I know. My hope is that Harry will write 
something in answer to my little story, and I shall 
see it and find wrapped up in it some messages from 
my dear ones — some news of their welfare. 

I did not know exactly how to do about sending 
the manuscript. I could not sign my own name, 
and I do hate “ Lucy Simpson.” I wouldn’t sign 
that, so I thought, to destroy my identity altogether 
with Mr. Poe, I would just put “ George Perkins.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 
FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


E VA’S fainting-fit threw quite a shadow over 
our arrival in Baltimore, and she acted so 
strangely on her recovery that it filled us with dis- 
may. She threw herself into her husband’s arms, 
entreating him not to leave her, not to send her 
from him, and became so excited whenever she saw 
any of us that we were obliged to leave the room. 

Dr. Harrison came out after a while, looking 
very grave. Eva’s condition gave him the greatest 
anxiety, he said, and had done so ever since their 
marriage : her nervous system seemed in such an 
irritated state that the least thing upset her ; and 
then he gravely questioned us as to her disposition 
and health prior to her marriage. We told him 
that she had always been perfectly healthy and up 
to the time of Lin’s disappearance as free from any- 
thing like nervousness as it was possible to imagine 
any one. 

“ Yes;” said he; “ it evidently all hinges upon that. 
Every mention of her sister excites her most un- 
happily.” 

“ Well, my dear Charleton,” said the judge, lay- 
280 


FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


281 


ing his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “ I 
really do not recognize anything very mysterious in 
the effect which her sister’s loss has had upon your 
wife. A living trouble is far worse than a dead one, 
and I feel that with myself it has been the greatest 
affliction of my life. The idea is never absent from 
my mind of that precious child, that young, sensi- 
tive, refined girl, roughing it we know not where or 
under what circumstances from a devotion to some- 
thing she falsely imagines her duty. Eva must 
naturally feel all this keenly, for a woman’s nature 
is so much more sensitive than a man’s. And her 
own sister, too !” 

“ Of course,” said the doctor ; but it was easy to 
see that somewhere under that “ Of course ” there 
was a reservation which we could not understand. 

I turned to Harry. He was watching the doctor 
intently, keenly. Could it be that the same sus- 
picion was creeping over him with which I was 
battling in my own heart — a suspicion which, in 
spite of myself, crept over me, and before I was 
aware seized me, got me down and "held me — that 
Eva knew more about Lin than we had ever sus- 
pected, and had an object in keeping us from find- 
ing her ? This power of one mind over another is 
wonderful ; it belongs to the law of sympathy be- 
tween the great human family. From the time I 
thought I discovered from Harry’s intent searching 
eye fixed so keenly upon the doctor that he shared 


282 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


my suspicions, — from that time I ceased to struggle 
against my conviction ; and although I then thought 
we would never talk about the matter together, yet 
I knew by intuition that we were going over the 
same line of circumstances in our own minds, call- 
ing in the witnesses and summing up the evidence. 
I recalled the childhood of the two children — that 
subtile element in Eva’s character of which I have 
before spoken, the slippery foundation which gave 
way in an emergency. The many times I could re- 
member when she had softly glided out of a diffi- 
culty at the sacrifice of the spirit if not the word 
of truth, and often left poor Lin floundering in the 
mire which she herself had made because the young- 
er sister did not know any of those short cuts so 
familiar to Eva, or, if she had known them, would 
have disdained to use them ! I remembered, also, 
how it always happened that if there was a sacrifice 
to be made, Lin, in her generous nobleness of soul, 
was always the one to make it, and how, as she said, 
Eva always could make wrong seem right to her. 
Oh, could it be that she had woven some such spell 
around our poor darling ? My heart quivered and 
my eyes filled as I thought of it. 

There was one other witness to be examined. It 
was utterly at war with everything I had ever sus- 
pected in the elements of Eva’s character that she 
should suffer so keenly, with such prolonged effects, 
from Linda’s disappearance ; she was too much of 


FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


283 


an egotist for that. There was some link which 
touched her keenly in the chain of circumstances, 
some iron which entered into her soul, but it was 
not anxiety about her sister. 

As I lay awake hour after hour that night, and 
reasoned all this and compared every circumstance, 
suspicion became absolute certainty. I wondered 
we had all been so blind. I recalled most minutely 
every circumstance of Eva’s return home on that 
remembered day, mercilessly dissected every change 
of expression, every variation of manner, and the 
jury without leaving the box brought in a verdict 
of « Guilty.” 

So perfectly convinced was I of the justice of 
this decision that when I rose next morning I felt 
as if I could not meet Eva as though nothing had 
happened, and was relieved to find she was so un- 
well as not to be able to leave her room ; so the 
three gentlemen and myself sat down to the pretty 
little breakfast-table with its tasteful appointments, 
where nothing was spared which wealth could 
supply. 

The judge looked disappointedly at the head of 
the table as he said, 

“ Your table, Charleton, lacks only the presence 
of its mistress to make it perfect. I had anticipated 
so much pleasure in seeing my little Eva preside as 
mistress of your household !” 

“ Yes, and I assure you she feels most keenly the 


284 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


disappointment. Poor little thing ! Certainly this 
terrible sensitiveness throws a cloud over our domes- 
tic happiness which is very sad/’ answered the 
doctor. 

“ Oh, w T ell, it will all disperse when we find our 
runaway. Little puss ! I think I shall have to 
scold her before I kiss her,” said the judge. 

“ You have not told me yet, sir, what grounds 
you have for suspecting she is in Baltimore,” said 
Charleton. 

Harry laid the case before him. 

“And now,” he asked, “what do you advise as 
our best course ? I suppose if we offered a reward 
for George Perkins a large portion of your popula- 
tion would step forward in male attire and claim 
it.” 

“ Yes ; it is hard to know what to do,” said the 
doctor ; and so we talked round and round the sub- 
ject without coming to any conclusion, and rose from 
the table a little down-hearted at the difficulties be- 
fore us. 

I drew Harry aside and proposed a talk in the 
parlor; so there we adjourned. I said, 

“ Harry, you may depend upon it there is one in 
this house who could give us the missing link if she 
only would.” 

“ You too !” exclaimed Harry, turning round upon 
me, catching my arm and in his agitation pressing 
it until I almost screamed. “You dare to harbor 


FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


285 


the horrible thoughts which have so relentlessly pos- 
sessed me the whole night through?” 

“ Yes,” I said ; “ I can no longer resist the evi- 
dence against her and item by item I went over 
my chain of circumstances. 

Harry listened intently, nodding his head at in- 
tervals, and then added, 

“And, Miss Ellen, do you mark this: before 
Eva’s marriage we heard regularly from Lin ; the 
letters were always marked ‘ Richmond.’ You re- 
member how we searched the city over and over 
again ; those letters must have been enclosed to 
some one in Richmond who mailed them.” 

“And that person was Eva Dalrymple,” I said. 
“ I remember, when she was sick, how I would go 
into her room sometimes and find her with her desk 
on the bed beside her. She was either writing or 
had been ; and when I would offer to have her let- 
ters mailed, she handed me one to Dr. Harrison, or 
to others, perhaps, but never enough for the quantity 
of writing she did. I said to her once, ‘ Eva, you 
must not write so much ; it is not good for your 
head,’ and she said something about her diary. And 
as soon as she got well enough she crawled up and 
went out, declining my company, as she preferred 
to go alone. All this is very little in itself, but, 
taken with other circumstances, it adds confirmation 
to my conviction that Eva Harrison holds in her 
hands the clue to the unraveling of this mystery.” 


286 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE . 


“But, ray dear friend,” said Harry, “we must 
hunt for a motive. Can you divine any cause for 
this conduct on the part of the two sisters — any 
circumstance which would throw them out of con- 
fidence with all others and in confidence with each 
other ?” said Harry ; and he put his face close to 
mine as he said this, and his eyes seemed to pierce 
into my very soul. 

In a moment I saw his drift, and, clapping my 
hands together in my excitement, said, 

“ There is but one thing, Harry, which could do 
this, and that is — ” 

“ The return of their mother !” He took the 
words out of my mouth, and then we clasped hands 
over the chasm we had bridged. 

But my heart sank at the bare idea of Lin in the 
hands of her unprincipled mother. I shuddered as 
I exclaimed, 

“ Oh, Harry, that dreadful woman !” 

“ And don’t you remember,” said Harry, “ Lin’s 
morbid sensitiveness at the time she discovered the 
existence of this mother — her horror of bringing 
what she called ‘ her bad blood ’ into our family ? If 
that mother did return, I feel very sure Lin would 
have shrunk from bringing her into our household.” 

“ Poor Lin !” I said, the tears falling from my 
eyes in tender pity for my darling. “ How often 
have I heard her say, ‘ Maxy, I would stand any 
trouble but disgrace ’ !” 


FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


287 


“ Stop !” said Harry, quickly starting up ; “ a rec- 
ollection suddenly comes to me. The very morning 
I saw Lin last I went down town by Broad street. 
Just as I got to the station the cars came in, and as 
the passengers passed down, with that sort of idle 
curiosity which impels every one to watch the move- 
ments of strangers I lingered on the sidewalk and 
watched them. I was accosted by the oddest-look- 
ing woman. Oh, Maxy, she spoke broken English, 
too, and just as she was beginning to tell me some 
story or ask my help in some way Lyle came up 
and interrupted us ; when I turned back, she was 
gone.” 

“ What sort of looking person was she ?” I asked. 

“ I only remember that she was fantastically 
dressed, with painted cheeks and gray curls, and 
with every mark of the direst poverty about her. 
Oh, Maxy, could this have been my poor Lin’s 
mother ? Is it possible she has been domesticated 
with her for a year and a half?” and the poor boy 
actually turned so white that I felt afraid he was 
going to faint. 

“ God forbid !” I exclaimed as I drew him down 
into a chair beside me. “ But, Harry, our Lin is 
made of such stuff that we could trust her to come 
unscathed out of worse fire than that.” 

“ God bless her ! He knows I do not distrust 
her for one minute. Doubt her ! Whatever the 
situation in which she has been, she has graced it. 


288 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


But the sufferings her high-strung, sensitive nature 
must have endured in such a furnace, if it is as we 
think, these eighteen months, must have been a lin- 
gering torture to my darling.” 

“ Well, the end is nearly here, I hope and believe, 
Harry,” I said, soothingly. 

He started up again, his whole being on fire at 
the thought : 

“ But I cannot get at her ! She may be only a 
few squares off, and, though so near, yet so far ! I 
feel as if I want to get out and search every house, 
street by street, until I find her.” 

“ Patience, patience, my dear boy !” I said. 

u Oh, don’t say the word again to me. It has 
been ‘ Patience, patience !’ for so long, until I am 
old and weary with the effort quietly to endure my 
hard, hard fate.” 

Just then the judge and Dr. Harrison joined us, 
and it was decided that the gentlemen should go out 
and consult the chief of police and see what steps 
had best be taken. 

“ I will stay with Eva,” I said. 

“ Do !” said Charleton ; “ I shall feel easy to know 
that you are with her. Just go to her room; I 
know she will be glad to see you.” 

I doubt if he would so confidingly have left her 
with me had he known the unmerciful spirit I 
took to the interview, for I was fully determined to 
probe her to the quick and, whatever might be the 


FOLLOWING THE CLUE. 


289 


consequences, to get out of her her whole knowledge 
of the mystery. 

I watched the gentlemen down the front steps, 
and just as I was turning to go in Harry ran back 
and said, 

u Maxy, don’t spare her ; she will be all the better 
for getting rid of the guilty secret. Get it out of 
her if you have to tear it out. My best hope re- 
mains with you, Maxy.” 

I gave him a reassuring clasp of the hand, and 
he was gone. 

19 


CHAPTEK XXIV. 


RETRIBUTION. 

AXD now, like a careful general, I retired to my 
-f*- room to measure off the ground and consider 
my adversary’s strength before I went into the bat- 
tle, for that I would have to fight hard for the vic- 
tory I had not the smallest doubt. I thought of 
David when Saul clothed him in armor which he 
rejected for strength greater than it would give him, 
and I too sought that strength. I bound the girdle 
of truth about my loins and took with me the shield 
of faith. 

I tried to take out of my heart any bitterness to 
poor Eva, though this was hard when I thought of 
Lin exiled and suffering these weary months, and 
that Eva was the cause of it. Surely the powers of 
darkness were arrayed against us in the person of 
that young woman with the angel-face. I had no 
longer a shadow of doubt of her complicity in the 
matter. 

As I was passing out of my room I remembered 
how it helps a woman in embarrassment or perplex- 
ity to have a piece of sewing — the needle is woman’s 
special appeal — so I took from my trunk a piece of 
290 


RETRIBUTION. 


291 


worsted work, then much in vogue. It is strange 
how I can recall the very pattern even, for I never 
saw it after that dreadful morning. It was intend- 
ed for an ottoman, and the design was a pair of 
lovers, the mottled youth and maiden both very 
much distorted in face and figure by the impossibil- 
ity of adapting the square stitches on canvas to the 
regularity necessary in making features. They 
stood in an affectionate attitude amidst a bower of 
gaudy flowers the like of which I will venture to 
affirm never were made by the Maker of Nature. 

I knocked at Eva’s door, and, listening intently, 
heard her say, 

“ Don’t let any one come in ; I cannot see any 
one this morning.” 

The maid opened the door, and without saying 
a word I put her aside and entered the beautiful 
apartment, so redolent of wealth, taste and luxurious 
appointments. The young mistress was lying upon 
a lounge attired in a dressing-gown of the most 
delicate shade of blue, which set off to peculiar ad- 
vantage the extreme purity of her complexion, and 
her golden hair, escaping at every point, curled be- 
witchingly about her face. I could imagine how a 
woman beautiful as she was in this charming negligee 
could wind her husband about her delicate finger. 
She raised herself with a little indignant flush upon 
her face, but I gave her no time to speak as I said, 

“ Dr. Harrison asked me to look after you this 


292 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


morning, Eva, and I have brought my work to 
keep us company.” 

I seated myself beside her, and to give her time 
to recover her admirable self-possession I busied 
myself unfolding the canvas. I think she divined 
my intention on the instant. First, I had not 
kissed her as I entered, which would have been 
natural to our familiar affectionate intercourse, and 
one on the alert for signs of the times gives undue 
importance often to trifles. It was one of the straws 
which showed the direction of the wind’s course. 

“ I told Alice to say I was too unwell to see any 
one this morning, Maxy,” said Eva. 

“ Yes, I heard ; but a nervous person should not 
have too much time alone, so I took the liberty of 
coming in without leave and I laughed. 

She saw there was no help, and so in a moment 
was herself — calm, self-possessed, thoroughly on the 
watch and completely armed against me. 

“ You always would have your own way, Maxy,” 
she said, taking my work out of my hands and ex- 
amining it critically. 

“ Yes,” I said, “ it is one of my special preroga- 
tives, and Lin and yourself will never be anything 
to me but children.” 

She winced palpably at Lin’s name, and changed 
the subject : 

“ What an elaborate piece of work ! You did not 
formerly occupy yourself with such trifles.” 


RETRIB TJTION. 


293 


“ No; I did not have the time then. I had too 
many real boys and girls to deal with to spend my 
precious hours in fashioning this inferior type.” 

“ Very inferior, I should say,” she said. “This 
poor girl has the color in her cheeks put in squares, 
and the lover’s nose is the most wretched fail- 
ure I ever saw ; it looks as if it had been broken 
into fragments and stuck on badly afterward. And 
what eyes, Maxy ! — little square dots of black and 
blue. Horrible ! I don’t see how you can make 
such deformities.” 

I said, 

“ I must say you shock me, Eva. I thought this 
work was esteemed beautiful, and I have been get- 
ting it ready for Lin by the time she comes back.” 

She changed her fence to keep off the objection- 
able subject, and in a weak, nervous voice said, 

“ Maxy, don’t, please, talk to me about her ; I 
am so weak this morning I cannot stand it.” 

I knew Eva so well that I recognized mingled 
with the evident ruse a little appeal in her voice to 
my pity, but it had no effect on me. I said, 

“ Not talk about Lin — our Lin ! What non- 
sense, Eva! I think if I had been with you all 
this time, talking to you about her, you would 
never have gotten into this condition, which makes 
you shrink at the mention of your sister’s name. 
Yes, it is of Lin, and of Lin alone, that I must talk 
this morning. Why, she will be with us soon, Eva. 


294 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Rouse yourself to rejoice. Perhaps she may be 
here to dinner. The poor darling !” 

“Maxy, you are cruel — indeed you are. Dr. 
Harrison avoids every subject which can excite me 
at all when I am sick and Eva covered her face 
with the lace-bordered handkerchief she held. 

I took into my vision the fragile blue-veined 
hand with its tapering fingers and rosy nails. 
Should I spare her ? No ! Lin’s safety and Lin’s 
happiness were at stake. Lin was in the power 
of that wretched French woman, and must be res- 
cued at any peril. 

“ With all due deference to Dr. Harrison’s skill 
as a physician,” I said, “ I do not approve of his 
practice in this particular. It makes it worse to 
feel that there is a subject which is to be utterly 
avoided ; and if by chance it is touched upon, you 
give up, faint away, and all that nonsense. Rouse 
yourself, Eva; I want to hear all about the day 
you parted with Lin. You know you were the 
last of the family who saw her. Was any one with 
her? We have reason to think that she did not 
leave Richmond alone.” 

That brought the handkerchief down from the 
face, and Eva looked at me with frightened eyes : 

“ What do you mean ? What have you heard ?” 

“ Nothing,” I said, going on with my work, “ but 
Harry and I have been summing up our evidence 
together this morning, and the chain is complete. 


RETRIBUTION. 


295 


Linda did not leave Richmond alone; there was 
some strong influence brought to bear upon her 
conscience and her self-sacrificing disposition which 
dragged her away from home and the friends she 
so dearly loved. Letters came from her up to the 
fifteenth of May, you remember, Eva : it was only a 
few days before your marriage. Since then we have 
never heard a word. That is strange, is it not? 
We are brought to the inevitable conclusion here 
that there must have been some one up to that time 
in Richmond who received and mailed her letters, 
as she was certainly not in the city. The silence 
since convinces us that this collusion with some one 
in the city ceased about the time of your marriage.” 

There was certainly a wonderful semblance of in- 
nocence in the indignation which flushed all over 
Eva’s beautiful face as she rose up before me. 

“ I see now to what all this tends,” she said — 
“this visit, ostensibly made for my good. Here, 
in my own house, when I am ill, my husband away, 
I am helpless in your hands, and you take advantage 
of this to come here to insult me. You wish to accuse 
me of complicity in Linda’s strange behavior.” 

I was a little taken by surprise ; I had no idea 
Eva would so soon bring matters to a crisis. I 
thought she would parry my thrusts in her soft 
way, pleading unconsciously and appealing to my 
sympathies by her very weakness, and undermin- 
ing my intention almost before I knew it. She had 


296 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


not the patience to try this game successfully ; she 
was too broken in nerve and courage for it. Her 
present position was the last desperate rally of her 
forces. I saw it, and thrust home at once. 

“ Insult you ! No,” I said — “ accuse you. Yes, 
it is perfectly useless, Eva, for you to continue in 
your false position. A few hours will bring out into 
the full light of day all the mystery which has en- 
veloped us ; I come to you this morning to entreat 
you to save yourself while there is time.” 

“Save myself!” she cried. “From what?” 

“ From utter disgrace,” I said — “ from the con- 
tempt of those whose opinion you most value.” 

An ashen hue crept over her fair face, but she did 
not yet surrender. 

“ This is the most unaccountable accusation, Miss 
Maxwell, I ever heard of. Upon what grounds do 
you make it ? I know nothing more about Linda 
Dalrymple than you do.” 

“ Eva,” I said, laying my hand upon hers, “ do I 
live to hear you utter a positive falsehood, and when, 
too, there is no use in it ? Have you lost not only 
all principle, but all sense? You are throwing 
away a chance of retrieving the sad past. Tell me 
all about it, child.” 

“ I will not !” she exclaimed, violently drawing 
her hand from beneath mine ; and, throwing herself 
back on the lounge, she burst into a passion of 
weeping. 


RETRIBUTION. 


297 


Again I was surprised. Eva was not conducting 
the battle at all as I had expected. I thought I 
had brought her to the point where she would grace- 
fully lay down her arms and throw herself on my 
mercy ; I afterward learned of this one little cir- 
cumstance which gave her the strength to hold out. 
That morning, while we were at breakfast, a note 
was despatched in great haste directed to “ Miss 
Lucy Simpson.” I have it before me now, and here 
it is : 

“ Oh, my dear Lin, have pity on me ! Forgive 
me for my many faults to you, for my selfishness. 
Have pity on me, Lin ; be generous. They are all 
here, Lin. Grandpa, Harry and Maxy have come 
to search Baltimore from one end to the other for 
you, because they say they know you are here. 
Lin, not my happiness only, but my life, is at stake. 
I will never live to be degraded and dishonored in 
the eyes of my husband. The hour you are found 
and it all comes out, that hour I will be dead. I 
am young, Lin, and not fit to die ; I cling to life for 
this reason only. Will you not take pity on me — 
save me for repentance and salvation ? I plead as 
a criminal on the gallows pleads for reprieve, and, 
Lin, if you will do this for me — that is, go away 
anywhere — I will gradually break the whole mat- 
ter to my husband, and you shall be released — in- 
deed you shall — and I will ask God to forgive me ; 


298 


UNDER THE FRUNING-KNIFE. 


for indeed I am sorry for all the past. One more 
thing, Lin, I ask : If they should find you, do not 
tell them I knew anything. I ask only a merciful 
silence, that is all. Only write one line to say what 
you will do, and oh that it may be the word I need 
to comfort me in my misery ! 

“ Your wretched sister, 

“Eva Harrison.” 

The answer to this had not yet come, but it was 
upon the hope of what it would contain that Eva 
refused to yield. 

I said to her, 

“ You tacitly admit, in saying that you will not 
tell anything, that there is something to tell.” 

She started up : 

“ No, no, I do not ! If I did, don’t believe me. 
You madden me so I do not know what I say. I 
am not responsible ; I do not know anything.” 

J ust at that moment there was a knock at the door, 
and the maid came in and handed Eva a note. My 
heart stood still for a moment ; I thought I caught 
a glimpse of Lin’s familiar handwriting. It was 
but a glimpse; I could not be certain, for Eva 
crushed the note in her hand and ran to the window, 
read it, then came back smiling and calm as if there 
had never been a ripple upon the surface of her life. 
This was the note : 

“ When you read this, my mother and myself will 


RETRIBUTION. 299 

be out of your way. I go trusting in your promise. 
Once more, Eva, I trust you.” 

I was perplexed. I saw her relief, and knew 
that it argued renewed obstacles for us. Oh, if I 
only knew their nature ! If I could only obtain 
possession of that letter ! I felt, as Harry expressed 
it, like tearing it from her ; and she seated herself 
by me with that triumphant face. 

“ Come, Maxy !” she said ; “ I can’t quarrel with 
you in my own house. You know, though you will 
not admit, that you have given me ample reason. 
As to my knowing anything, the idea is perfectly 
absurd. What motive could I have? Now, pray 
tell me, Maxy : what possible motive could I have? 
Only think how happy it would make me to have 
Lin with me all the time, the doctor is away so 
much.” 

“ That question of motive puzzled Harry and 
myself for a time, Eva,” I said, “ but we feel con- 
fident we have hit upon the answer to that too.” 

“ Indeed? It is pleasant for me to know that 
you two have been plotting against me in my own 
house. At what sage conclusion did you arrive ?” 

“ That your mother had returned.” 

“ My mother ! You surely know she is dead ?” 

“ No, Eva ; we feel sure not only that she is alive, 
but that Lin, with your knowledge, has been with 
her for the past eighteen months; and this is the 
motive. You were probably actuated by a morbid 


300 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


sensitiveness at first which might have been excused, 
but every moment has added to your guilt, be- 
cause you have covered your knowledge with words 
which certainly were not words of truth, Eva.” 

“ Miss Maxwell, even my regard for you as my 
teacher can scarcely justify mein allowing you to 
speak to me as you are doing, and that upon the 
silliest piece of imagination that ever was con- 
ceived ;” and Eva drew herself up with an air of 
offended dignity which might have had an effect 
upon me had I not known her so well and been so 
fully convinced of her guilt. 

“ Eva,” I said, “ only tell me everything, and we 
will save you from any ill-consequences. Only 
think of what our poor dear Lin must have suf- 
fered !” 

“ What can I know of ‘ poor dear Lin ’ ? That 
is the most perfect folly ! If I only knew, I would 
tell. Don’t you believe me ?” 

“ No,” I said ; “ not one word you say.” 

“ Maxy,” she cried, “ I declare to you I have no 
more idea than the dead where Lin is.” 

“ Then,” I said, looking searchingly into her face 
as she sat opposite to me, “ there is one thing I am 
sure of : the note you just received informed you 
she had gone away again. This is one of your 
plans, too.” 

She threw herself back in her chair and laughed 
heartily : 


RETRIBUTION . 


301 


/ 

“You have the drollest ideas! How could I 
have accomplished such a thing, and I laid up in 
my bed sick?” 

“ Pshaw !” I exclaimed, thoroughly out of pa- 
tience, and, more than that, thoroughly dismayed 
by the fear that Eva had been too quick for us. 

“ Maxy,” she said, “ you are not very civil, but 
I am determined not to take offence. I can make 
allowance for the excited state of your feelings. Of 
course I know all about that ; no one can feel Lin’s 
loss more than I do.” 

This was too much. I threw aside my work and 
paced up and down the room in my excitement. I 
really think I was debating whether I would not be 
justified in seizing Eva and taking from her that 
note, which contained all I wanted to know. 

“ Eva,” I said, “ if you do not give me that note 
or tell me its contents, I shall, as soon as Judge 
Wallace and Dr. Harrison come home, go to them 
and tell them everything. I cannot stand this any 
longer.” 

“ What note ?” she asked, with the most perfectly 
simulated ignorance. 

“ The note Alice brought you a few minutes ago,” 
I said. 

Eva clapped her hands and laughed as heartily as 
a child : 

“Why, Maxy, how dreadfully suspicious you 
are ! The idea of your imagining there is any- 


302 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


thing in that note ! To be sure you may have it. 
Stop ! where did I throw it ? Ah ! here ;” and she 
brought me a note which at first glance I knew was 
not the one I had seen. It was directed in a hand 
totally different from the bold, peculiar characters 
of which I had caught a glance. I handed it back 
to her and said with the indignation I felt at being 
thus played with, 

“ And do you think to put me off, Eva, by this 
paltry subterfuge ? If you do, let me tell you that 
you are greatly mistaken. This it not the note you 
received. The other was directed to you in Lin’s 
handwriting ; and if you do not give it to me or tell 
me its contents, I will certainly think it my duty to 
relate to Judge Wallace and Dr. Harrison all I 
know. We have all been very blind heretofore, 
but I have no longer a shadow of doubt that Linda 
is in some way sacrificing herself to your wishes. 
If she is again lost to us, it is your work. What- 
ever may be the case, on one thing I am determined 
— to have the whole matter investigated before we 
are a day older.” 

“ Maxy,” she said, “ you were always unjust to 
me; Lin was always first in your affections.” 

“ I admit freely,” I said, “ that Lin always has 
been, and is, first in my affections before the whole 
world — she is like a dear child to me — but you 
have never failed to have justice at my hands ; and 
that justice it is you would escape now. I have 


RETRIBUTION. 


303 


not taught and studied you both without knowing 
you thoroughly. No, no ! not thoroughly, for until 
the last few hours it never entered my mind that 
you could sink so low as you have.” 

“ Really, Miss Maxwell ” — and Eva straightened 
herself up as she spoke — “ I must request you to 
measure your terms in speaking to me. I am no 
longer the little schoolgirl, to be browbeaten and 
frightened ; in this house, at least, I claim the pro- 
tection of my husband’s name. Sorry as I am to 
do it, I only act as he would were he here when I 
ask you to leave my house at once. I have borne 
with insults and accusations ; but when you threaten 
me, I can no longer stand calmly.” 

“ I am sorry,” I said, “ to intrude, but I shall not 
leave the house until Judge Wallace’s return, and 
then I shall do exactly what he advises.” 

Eva turned and pulled the bell-cord ; her maid 
appeared. 

“ Tell Roger to have Miss Maxwell’s baggage 
removed to Barn urn’s Hotel at once — at once, re- 
member. Stop ! have the carriage gotten instantly ; 
she will ride, and her baggage can go with her.” 

What a queen she was ! Now all her forces were 
up in arms, and she was in full command. She did 
not want even a crown or royal robes to complete the 
character. But I had no intention of leaving the 
house until the gentlemen returned ; I should stand 
my ground in spite of her. 


304 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


Dr. Harrison’s house was in a very quiet part of 
the city. I had paused in my impatient walk up 
and down the room, and with my arm leaning on 
the window-sill looked down upon the street, now 
more quiet than usual. I was debating in my own 
mind what to do. It was hard to insist upon stay- 
ing in a house out of which I had been most uncer- 
emoniously asked, but I could not allow her the 
first word : I knew her powers too well. No ; I 
would stand my ground at all hazards. It took 
me some time to come back again to this pointy 
from which I had first started. I had traveled all 
over the debatable ground of the subject, thoroughly 
canvassing it from every standpoint. 

Eva was seated in a large arm-chair watching me. 
Neither of us had spoken a word since she sent the 
order for the carriage. 

Suddenly the quiet of the street was broken by 
the tramping of many feet and the roll of a single 
vehicle coming slowly, slowly toward the house. 
I, scarce thinking what I was doing, and certainly 
actuated by no particular interest or curiosity, put 
my head out of the window, which was raised. 
The first object which caught my sight was a car- 
riage from the windows of which the grave, sad 
faces of Judge Wallace and Harry looked, and the 
bent head of a woman I plainly discerned over their 
shoulders. Instinctively following the direction of 
their sad glances, my eye fell upon a sight which 


RETRIBUTION. 


305 


paralyzed me with horror. Two litters borne upon 
the shoulders of men were almost beneath me on 
the sidewalk. On one was the form of a woman 
perfectly unknown to me. Her gray hair was dab- 
bled with blood and the arm which lay on her breast 
was a mass of blood-stained wrappings. But it was 
not this ghastly figure which riveted my attention 
most terribly — no ; for, horror of horrors ! upon 
the other litter lay the still, white face of Charleton 
Harrison ! 

20 


CHAPTER XXY. 

HARRY’S STORY. 

I SUPPOSE my face was to Eva a revelation 
that something was the matter, for she came 
hastily to my side. Everything else was forgotten 
in that dreadful moment except the impulse to keep 
from her the sight of her wrecked happiness, and, 
turning, I caught her in my arms, crying, 

“ God have mercy upon you, my dear child !” 
She had seen the carriage only, now standing be- 
fore the door, and out of it our poor Lin was step- 
ping, but this was enough. I bore back a helpless 
figure, and laid it upon the lounge utterly uncon- 
scious of the terrible blow which had fallen, the 
retribution which had overtaken her. Happy would 
it have been for her in that hour if, her spirit 
ripened for the change, she could for ever have 
closed her eyes upon the wretchedness of this earth 
and opened them in another and a better state of 
existence; but the terrors of that hour she never 
knew — the tramping of the burden-bearers up the 
steps, the crowd in the room, the whispered explana- 
tions, the shrieks, the groans. 

306 


BARRY'S STORY. 


307 


Neighbors came in ; kind hands were busy every- 
where. Eva opened eyes which wandered unmean- 
ingly and unknowingly over familiar faces ; when 
she spoke, it was with the wild ravings of a disor- 
dered brain mingling the scenes of to-day with those 
of long ago, living an unreal existence in which joy 
and sorrow, fact and fancy, chased each other in 
rapid succession upon her tongue. 

The physician was, of course, called at once. 
He took it for granted that Eva had heard the sad 
intelligence, and every one else except myself 
thought the same thing ; I knew she had yet to 
learn the terrible news of her husband’s death. 
Lin’s return was the sole cause for her present con- 
dition ; to Harry alone I whispered this fact as we 
stood together at a distance from the sufferer. 

I had been so absorbed with Eva’s condition that 
I had heard only vague rumors of the tragedy, and 
had not even had time to cast a thought to the re- 
turn of our wanderer, but now, seeing that there 
were plenty of nurses about Eva, I permitted Harry 
to draw me from the room into a little dressing-room 
opening into Eva’s chamber ; here we seated our- 
selves upon a sofa, and I asked him for an account 
of the events of the morning. 

“Ah, Maxy,” he said ; “ are we never to be done 
with George Dalrymple’s fatal marriage ? It pur- 
sues us all like a Nemesis.” 

“ What has it to do with our present trouble ?” 


308 


UNDER THE PRUNTNO-KNIFE. 


I said, turning suddenly upon him with a flying 
thought of the mutilated occupant of the litter. 

“ Is it possible you do not know — that you have 
not heard that Charleton Harrison came to his end 
in the effort to save George Dalrymple’s wife from 
death?” 

I looked at him without the power to utter a 
word ; I only felt conscious of a great bewildering 
horror which took from me the power of speech. 
Was there ever a more fearful retribution — the 
young husband a voluntary sacrifice for the wife’s 
sin? 

Harry went on telling me the story. 

When they left me, a few hours before (oh, could 
it be only a few hours ago ?), they went at once to 
the chief of police and stated the case in full. 
Policeman Brown — a very prominent member of 
the police force — was summoned. Charleton Har- 
rison at once recognized him as having been on duty 
the night of the reception after his marriage. The 
circumstances were stated. He looked up with sud- 
den intelligence as Lin’s appearance was described, 
coupled with Dr. Harrison’s interest in her. 

“ Hallo !” he exclaimed. 

“ What’s the matter ?” cried Harry. 

“ You say she was tall, black-haired and black- 
eyed ?” 

u Yes. Have you ever seen her ?” exclaimed the 
judge, eagerly. 


HARRY’S STORY. 


309 


“ I ain’t prepared to say jist yit, sir, tell I hears 
’bout t’other one.” 

“ There is only one,” said Judge Wallace — "the 
young lady we have described to you.” 

Policeman Brown’s countenance fell : 

“ Not a old one talks furrin-like ? Certingly the 
young woman’s got her mother wid her.” 

Harry started. 

“ It is as I suspected, father,” he said. “ I have 
for some time been convinced that that miserable 
woman is at the bottom of all the trouble.” 

This was said in a low tone to Judge Wallace 
and Dr. Harrison. 

“ Good heavens !” exclaimed Charleton, starting 
away ; “ is that skeleton to be digged up to disgrace 
us all?” 

“ My dear boy, calm yourself,” said the old judge, 
laying his hand on Charleton’s shoulder ; “ remem- 
ber where we are.” 

Policeman Brown then told how on the night of 
the reception, while he was on duty, he was hailed 
by an old friend of his — Isaac Perkins — who begged 
him to get his two companions a place where they 
could get a peep at the bride, as they were acquaint- 
ances of Dr. Harrison’s and had seen the bridal- 
party when they arrived that evening. 

“ The young ’oman I tuck special notice of,” said 
the official, “ ’cause she had a look sorter ’bove Isaac 
Perkins — a sort a proud, uppish look ; en she had 


310 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


black eyes and hair, and was turble set on seem’ 
the bride. T'other one mout a-ben a servant er a 
fren' ; I dunno. I did see a difference in 'em." 

Policeman Brown further stated that he knew 
very well where Isaac Perkins lived and could there 
learn where he was “ workin' " at present, and they 
could find out from him all we wanted to know. 

So off* they started, all together, and before long 
reached Isaac Perkins's house. In answer to a 
knock a woman came to the door, her eyes red with 
weeping. 

“ Good-mornin', Mis' Perkins !" said Policeman 
Brown, and Mrs. Perkins responded with a sort of 
choke in her voice. 

“ Could you tell me whar Isaac is holdin' out jes' 
now ?" asked the officer. 

Mrs. Perkins gave the directions of a new house 

on street, and we were just turning away when 

Brown suddenly changed his intention : 

“ I met Isaac a smart bit agone — mought be a 
year, maybe and he looked at Dr. Harrison for 
confirmation. 

“ A year in May last," responded the doctor. 

“Wall, Isaac was tryin' to get a peep at this 
gent'man’s bride at his deception or exception — 
whatever you calls it — when I cum on him and 
helped him. There was two ladies wid him, a 
young one en an old one. We want to hear some- 
thin' of em ; leastways, these gent'men does." 


HARRY'S STORY. 


311 


Mrs. Perkins burst into tears, but either could 
not or would not give them any information. 

Judge Wallace stepped forward with as much 
courtesy as if he had been speaking to a duchess : 

“ My good madam, I feel sure you will help us 
in this matter, for I see you can. Your manner 
shows that in some way our inquiries are connected 
with your present agitation. A dear child of mine, 
Miss Dairy mple — ” 

Here Mrs. Perkins looked up and declared she 
had never heard of any Miss Dalrymple in her 
“born days.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Harry — a little impatiently, it 
must be confessed, for the delay was very trying to 
his nerves — “you do not know her under that name; 
but the young lady who was with your husband the 
night you know of — ” 

“ Is a precious child of mine,” put in the judge, 
“ to whom we mean nothing but the greatest love 
and kindness, and for her own good it is essential 
we find her to-day.” 

His manner evidently made an impression upon 
Mrs. Perkins, and she said, 

“ I promised I wouldn’t tell ye ef you axed, en 
I can’t break my word.” 

“ Then you do know !” exclaimed all at once ; 
and Judge Wallace added, 

“ Oh, indeed such a promise is better broken than 
kept. It is for her good that we must find her.” 


312 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ Well,” said Mrs. Perkins, after a longer hesita- 
tion, “she ain’t here, and I dunno whar she have 
gone, if she be the one you was lookin’ for. Her 
name ain’t no 1 Dairy mple,’ nor nothin’ like it, but 
just ‘ Simpson,’ and her ma call her ‘Mononfong.’ ” 
“She is not here? Then where is she?” ex- 
claimed the judge, and Harry walked up and down 
with ill-concealed impatience. 

Then Mrs. Perkins told all. The two ladies had 
been living in her upper room for a matter of a year 
and a half. The old lady was “ furrin,” and she 
had often wondered why her daughter should not 
be “furrin ” too. The young lady had “teached,” 
at Mr. David Sollis’s, and the old lady “ ’broidered,” 
at home. That morning a note had been brought for 
Miss Simpson, which Miss Simpson answered, and 
then came in and said she was “ ’bliged ” to go away. 

“ She was crying when she said it,” said the good 
woman, wiping away her own tears. “ I, sir, had 
learned to love that child like she was some kin to 
me, so we just cried together; en she says, ‘Ah, 
Mis’ Perkins ! there don’t seem no rest for me.’ 
I axed her whar she was goin’, but she said she 
didn’t know, en if enybody come axin’ for her I 
was not to give no satisfaction. So she went away 
wid her mother, and I heard her tell the drayman 
to take her trunk to the Philadelphia station.” 

“ How long have they been gone ?” exclaimed all 
at once. 


HARRY’S STORY. 


313 


“ They hardly had got to the end of the square 
when you knocked,” said Mrs. Perkins. 

That was enough, and off started the party like a 
flash. The Philadelphia train did not leave for half 
an hour, and by taking a hack they hoped to reach 
the station before Lin and her mother. They found a 
conveyance on the next square, and in a few moments 
reached the station without having seen anything of 
the fugitives. They alighted, and while Brown and 
Judge Wallace went inside to search the cars Harry 
and poor doomed Charleton remained without to 
keep watch over the arrival of the passengers. A 
few moments served to complete the catastrophe by a 
rapid change of scene for the full conception of which 
the eye alone is capable : words creep too slowly. 

First, a pair of horses maddened by fear came 
dashing down the street. They were attached to a 
furniture-wagon, from which the driver had already 
been unseated, so that there was no restraint upon 
them but their own wild will. As they approached 
there was a general scattering of men and vehicles, 
and two ladies, veiled and impeded in their move- 
ments by traveling-bags and other paraphernalia, 
were left standing in the middle of the crossing, 
directly in the path of the furious animals. They 
had just discovered the danger, and now, bewildered 
by the cries which assailed them on all sides of “ Go 
back !” — “ Run forward !” — “ Take care !” — “ Don't 
you see the horses ?” they stood for a second per- 


314 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


fectly still. Harry and Charleton dashed forward 
together to the rescue, crying out, “ Good heavens ! 
they will be killed \” At the same instant the tall- 
er of the two ladies threw up her veil and disclosed 
the face of Linda Dalrymple gazing with frightened 
eyes at the horses, which were by this time within a 
few feet of them. She made one convulsive move- 
ment to seize her companion as Harry caught her 
and dragged her away, but her shrieks rang wildly 
on the morning air as she saw her poor mother just 
make a desperate effort to follow her, stumble, throw 
up her hands, and with a cry fall directly under the 
feet of the horses just as Charleton Harrison laid 
hold on her dress to snatch her away from the im- 
pending death. 

Lin hid her eyes, crying, 

“ Oh, for the love of God, save my poor mother !” 

When she looked up amid the confusion, she saw 
the prancing, dashing animals tearing wildly away, 
and upon the crossing-stones lay two motionless 
bodies, lying almost in each other’s arms, and over 
these the heads of the gathering crowd were rapidly 
meeting. 






CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE LOST SHEEP BROUGHT HOME. 

I CANNOT tell this tragical incident as Harry 
told it to me, there was such power of eloquence 
in one who saw, heard and acted in it as he had 
done. 

“And where is Lin?” I asked. 

“ By the bedside of her poor mother,” answered 
Harry. “ She seems to have no thought beyond her, 
poor child ! — -just kneels there listening to catch every 
sound as if it were a something too precious to be 
lost, and whispering such words of tenderness as 
bring the tears to my eyes. Father is with her.” 
I turned to him in astonishment : 

“ Ho you mean to say she loves this woman, or is 
it only the pity natural for any poor wretch reduced, 
as she is, to a condition of helpless suffering?” 

“ Plenty of pity, Maxy, but evidently that is not 
all ; I have rarely seen an exhibition of more beau- 
tiful, genuine filial love than Lin’s for her mother. 
And you know there is nothing of the hypocrite 
about Lin.” 

“And she?” I asked. 


315 


316 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


“ The woman's chief cry was for ‘ mon ehbre en- 
fant, ma filled and she was perfectly wild until the 
crowd parted, and Lin, all convulsed with grief, 
knelt down upon the hard stones, put her dear arms 
about the mutilated form and soothed her with the 
sweet eloquence of love. Then she sank down like 
an infant at rest, not even groaning until she had to 
be separated from Lin to be placed on the litter. I 
never in all of my experience witnessed such a scene, 
and I do not believe there was a dry eye in the crowd. 
I saw strong, rough men turn aside to wipe away 
their tears.” 

“ And poor Charleton ?” I said. 

“ He never knew any suffering, poor noble fel- 
low. He died without a struggle, and the heroism 
which animated his last moments seems strangely 
stamped upon his lifeless clay.” 

“ ‘ Greater love hath no man than this that a man 
lay down his life for his friend/ ” I said. 

“ Yes, but it seems a strange providence, does it 
not,” said Harry, “ that his life should be laid down 
for one who of all the world he most dreaded and 
abhorred ?” 

I was silent while I thought of what would be 
poor Eva’s feelings when she heard the whole story. 
How would she read this strange page in God’s mys- 
terious workings ? 

And then we all three went to Lin. They had 
taken Mrs. Dairy mple into my room, and Lin knelt 


THE LOST SHEEP BROUGHT HOME. 317 


beside her as she lay almost motionless upon the 
bed. 

At the first glance at our recovered treasure I was 
amazed at the change which had been wrought in 
her. Could it be possible that this self-controlled 
woman, the workings of whose pale face alone re- 
vealed the intense feeling which was swaying her, 
could be our impulsive, passionate Lin, whose every 
feeling leapt out as soon as conceived ? She clasped 
the unmaimed hand of the sufferer, whose other arm 
lay upon the coverlid in a mass of blood-stained 
bandages. I knelt down beside our darling and 
threw my arms around her. She turned, and for a 
moment the strong face lost its strength and the big 
tears flowed freely over her cheeks. 

“This is my mother, Maxy — my poor, poor 
mother!” she said, in a whisper. 

“ I know it,” I said. “ Does she suffer, dear ?” 

“Not while I am here. Poor mother ! she has 
only me, you know, in the world. Other people 
have their hearts full of love for many friends ; hers 
overflows with love for me alone.” 

“ There is no love like mother-love,” said I, just 
by way of response, as I did not know how exactly 
to connect this new element with what I had always 
imagined Mrs. Dairy mple to be. 

“ Yes, but her love is something different from 
that of most mothers, Maxy ; it came late to her, 
and then sprang up at once fully developed. But 


318 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


from the fact of my being a woman grown when 
she came back, and perhaps because she depended 
on me, she combined the feeling I suppose one has 
for a mother — that tender, looking-up love — with 
the yearning love of the mother for a child. And 
then, too, she always seemed to feel that she had to 
make up to me for the faults of her youth, and for 
what I gave up in giving myself to her. She is so 
meek and humble, Maxy — so like a little child in 
her love for the Saviour. My poor little sorrowful 
mother ! only think of her life ending thus !” 

I looked at Lin in perfect amazement, and from 
her to the sleeping face upon the bed, now in the 
calm and stillness of approaching death, all so dif- 
ferent from what we thought and had a right to ex- 
pect. What had wrought the wonderful change? 
In some way that which had seemed a dire misfor- 
tune, an unmitigated mistake, had turned out to be 
the wonderful leadings of Providence to develop these 
two natures. Yes, I even then dimly guessed what 
afterward was so beautifully traced out in Linda’s 
simple story — how mother and daughter, thus isolat- 
ed from the world, had been the best tonic the one 
for the other, and through these devious wanderings 
it was well with the mother and well with the child. 

Suddenly the figure on the bed moved, and Lin 
leaned forward as the fading eyes opened : 

“ Mon enfant !” The voice was very weak and 
faint. 


THE LOST SHEEP BROUGHT HOME. 319 


“ Here is your child, close by you, mother. Don’t 
you see me ? Look here — here, mother and Lin 
leaned above the prostrate form. 

The wandering eyes fixed themselves at last, and 
a smile of ineffable love irradiated the dying face 
as she said, 

“ Ah, mon enfant , je vous ame. Mon Dieu est si 
bon ! I deserve it not.” 

“ You don’t suffer, mother, do you?” 

“ Non ! non ! Mon enfant , vous etes id.” Then 
a little expression of alarm agitated the quiet face, 
and she said, “ You will leave me not ?” 

“ Never, mother, so long as God spares us to each 
other. But, mother, you will leave me.” 

“Non, non, mon enfant! I go not any more. 
Togeder we go, togeder we stay.” 

A little sob broke from Lin ; the ears growing 
deaf to all other sounds heard it, and the dying 
woman looked anxiously up into the face above her : 

“ Que’st-ce que c’ est, mon enfant f Why weep you ? 
I have noting done ; I offend not.” 

“ No, no, mother but God is going to take you 
away from me.” 

An expression of wonder and awe crept over the 
face : 

“ I no understand. I haf no sick, I haf no pain.” 

“ Don’t you remember, mother, you were hurt 
to-day ?” 

The face plainly showed the effort to think, to 


320 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


bring out the incident. Slowly it came — the recol- 
lection : 

“Oui; I remember. What was it? We go 
away. De horses — so — run. You leaf me ; I fall. 
All is dark ; I know not anyting.” 

“Yes, mother, and now God is going to take 
you home where my father is.” 

“ Go you too, mon enfant ?” 

“After a little while, mother, when God is ready.” 

“ Oh, mon enfant , I can leave you not !” 

“ Only think of Jesus, mother — how good he was. 
Don’t you want to go to him ?” 

“ Oui, oui ! And I see mon George ; I tell him 
all.” 

“Yes, mother dear, and you must wait for me 
and watch for me,” poor Lin sobbed. 

“ Oui ! oui /” 

Another form pressed to Lin’s side and leaned 
above the dying woman. It was Harry’s : 

“Leave Linda with me, madame; I will take 
care of her until she goes to you.” 

She looked at him earnestly, and then turned to 
Lin and said, 

“Who, mon enfant?” 

Lin hesitated a moment, and then said in calm, 
clear tones, taking Harry’s hand and laying it with 
hers on her mother’s, 

“It is Harry Wallace, mother. I want you to 
love him as you do me.” 


THE LOST SHEEP BROUGHT HOME. 321 

She shook her head, as if that were impossible, 
but asked, 

“ Luf you him ?” 

“Yes, mother; I promised long ago to be his 
wife.” 

She understood, and for the first time addressed 
Harry, as if she almost envied him. 

“Ah! you will be happy,” she said. “ EUe est 
tr&s bonne — si douce. Mon enfant /” It was the 
outcry of nature at the parting. 

Harry leaned close to her and said in low, dis- 
tinct tones, 

“You must let me call you ‘ mother’ now our 
darling has told you.” 

She looked pleased and nodded her head, and he 
continued : 

“ Mother, I want you to know how I value this 
precious treasure you give to me — how I am going 
to watch over it and take care of it until I return 
it to you.” 

“ Oui ! oui /” 

“ And,” he continued, “ if it had pleased God to 
spare you to us — your children, mother — it would 
have been a great privilege to have helped Linda 
in the care of you, to have tried to be as good a 
son as she has been a daughter.” 

Again the head nodded, and the eyes smiled her 
understanding of what he said. 

I think nothing Harry could have done could so 
21 


322 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KNIFE. 


have touched Lin as that calling her poor humble 
parent “ mother.” . She just turned aside her head 
and laid it on his shoulder, as if it made his claim 
over her complete, and he put his arm around her 
with such a tender, protecting clasp that I felt they 
were all to each other, and left the bedside to seat 
myself by Judge Wallace, a little distance off. 

There was quiet for a few moments, and then the 
dying woman’s voice sounded clear and strong and 
with an accent of joy which brought tears to my 
eyes : 

“ Jesus! Le bon Jesus ! Tenez a moi! The 
sheep in de mountain — Say it, mon enfant .” 

Lin bent closer : 

“ ‘ The shepherd — ’ ” 

“ Le bon shepherd /” 

“ Yes, the good shepherd left the flock of ninety 
and nine sheep in the fold to go into the wilderness 
to hunt for the lost one, and brought it home on his 
shoulder rejoicing.” 

“ (Jest moi , mon enfant !” 

“ Yes, dear mother. He found you — lost to him 
and to me — in the streets of Paris, and brought you 
through so much trouble right to your own child to 
be taken care of; and now, mother, he will not rest 
until he has placed you safe in his heavenly fold. 
He is bearing you on ; you are almost out of the 
wilderness. The pearly gates are in sight ; he will 
bear you through them.” 


THE LOST SHEEP BROUGHT HOME. 323 


“Ah! George!” 

“ Yes, my father is waiting for you — yes, and he 
loves you, mother. You remember when I was ill 
I saw him, and he said I must bring you with me.” 

“ Oui, oui ! I go ! Adieu, mon enfant and as 
she said it her voice sank away like a dying strain 
of music. 

Judge Wallace and myself went to the bedside. 
Lin leaned closer and called, 

“ Mother !” 

She was far into the Valley, but for one instant 
that voice she so loved, giving her the name she 
loved, called her back to earth. The blue eyes un- 
closed, a smile faintly illuminated the face, and Lin 
caught the faint whisper, 

“ I go, mon enfant” 

Linda’s name was the last on her mother’s lips ; 
with it the life went out. The wanderer was borne 
out of the wilderness into the fold of the Good 
Shepherd. 

One kiss the faithful child left on the calm brow, 
and then she let Harry and grandpa lead her away, 
while I remained with the dead. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

I T but remains for me in this chapter to finish my 
story, feeling sadly how far short I have fallen 
of what might have been accomplished by other 
hands with such materials. 

The days which followed the terrible catastrophe 
narrated in my last chapter were full of anxiety 
for the living and of sorrow for the dead. Lin 
seemed utterly prostrated in mind and body, feeling, 
as she expressed it, as if her work had been taken 
from her hands and she forced to sit with them idly 
folded. Charleton’s death was a great affliction to 
her also, it was so terrible for him to be cut off so 
suddenly. And then her thoughts turned to poor 
Eva, whose ravings could be heard even where we 
were. This roused her to action. Eva ! she must 
go to her. Judge Wallace and Harry represented 
to her that she herself required rest and repose of 
mind, which she could not find at the bedside of her 
sister, but with a decision which was a constant sur- 
prise to us all, being so different from the submis- 

324 


CONCLUSION . 


325 


sive child she had always been, she said there was 
no repose for her anywhere else — she certainly was 
the person to nurse her sister; so she went — she 
and I. 

It was sad indeed to see the frail, beautiful Eva 
tossing herself from side to side, pursued by the 
vagaries of delirium. She did not seem to notice 
us at all — her life was quite outside of the real 
world of individuals — though she gave voluble voice 
to the thoughts and feelings which of late had pos- 
sessed her. Her cries for her husband were piteous, 
entreating him not to hate her — not to leave her. 
Sometimes she would tell him long stories about my 
treatment of her, occasionally tinged with fact, but 
carried far away beyond the bounds of reason by 
the power of her distorted brain. Then she would 
entreat Linda not to tell, but to preserve a merciful 
silence, and Lin would lean over her, saying, her 
firm, clear tones catching even the ear of her sister 
sometimes and holding her still by their familiarity, 

u Eva, listen to me. I never will tell anything 
which could harm you with any human being. Be- 
gin life anew, my sister.” 

And it w r as almost like beginning life anew when, 
after weeks of raving, Eva waked to consciousness, 
having only the strength of new life with which to 
meet life and the sorrow with which she must now 
become acquainted. She was strangely quiet and 
humble with her two nurses — Lin and myself — sub- 


326 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


mitting without a word to our will and for weeks 
never asking the question we so dreaded. 

It became a matter of wonder with us all why 
she did not gain strength, why she was so quiet, 
never speaking a word except in answer to our ques- 
tions, and, above all, why she never asked for her 
husband. At last we dimly guessed the truth from 
seeing her face flush at the sound of a step in the 
hall, her anxious look whenever the door was opened, 
and the weary sadness of her disappointed face when 
the one she looked for came not. We guessed that 
she thought he had learned all and stayed away in 
anger. We decided that the truth in all its bitter- 
ness would be better for her than this state of sus- 
pense. But how to tell that truth, when she avoided 
the least approach to the subject ? We watched and 
waited, Lin and I, and the opportunity came at last 
when one night we heard her weeping, thinking 
herself alone, and she murmured, 

“ Oh, my dear Charleton, have you left me for 
ever? Will you cast me off for one fault?” 

Then Lin, leaving my side with all that new 
decision of character which sat so strangely on her 
and swiftly crossing the room, knelt beside Eva, 
and, putting her arms round her, said, 

“ Charleton never left you of his own will, Eva ; 
to the end he never knew, nor even suspected, any- 
thing of you but what was an honor to you.” 

“ ‘ To the end ’ ? Oh, what do you mean ?” 


CONCLUSION. 


327 


Then we told her tenderly, leaving out all the 
harrowing portion of the story, for the present say- 
ing only that he died nobly trying to save a poor 
woman from death. 

There was grief, but not what we expected. We 
thought she was stunned, but read it aright when 
one day she sobbed in Lin’s sympathizing ear, 

“ Oh, Lin, I am altogether wicked ! I do not 
even feel as I ought to do about Charleton’s death ; 
I am consoled by the thought that if he had come 
home he would never have loved me again.” 

We all wondered why she expressed no anxiety 
to hear about Lin’s coming back, about her mother ; 
but it was all to be gradual — her knowledge of the 
whole story. 

The day came at last when she said to Lin, who 
lay on the bed beside her, 

“ Lin, forgive me ! I am so weak ! There is 
one duty I would like to perform ; I will feel bet- 
ter when it is over. I suppose it hangs over me 
like a nightmare. The woman !” 

“ Our mother,” suggested Lin, very quietly. 

“ Well, yes, it must be so, I suppose. I take it 
for granted she is in the house ; I will see her. 
Lin, can I?” 

Lin was silent. 

“ Lin, I want to ask her to forgive me. Can I ?” 

“ No, Eva.” 

“And why not?” Eva asked, a little indignant 


328 


UNDER THE PRUNING-KNIFE. 


that her overtures were not accepted. “ Does she 
resent my conduct? What are you crying for, 
Lin?” 

Then the whole sad story was finished, and Eva 
knew that her husband had died in the effort to res- 
cue the mother she had so despised. 

I think this last fact made a greater impression 
upon Eva than anything w r hich had happened, and 
we silently prayed that she might lay to heart the 
striking lesson taught — that God will not allow his 
laws to be violated, and often, even in this life, vis- 
its the law-breaker with the strokes of his retribu- 
tive justice. 

Six weeks had passed since Judge Wallace, Harry 
and myself had come to Baltimore to search for Lin. 
This brought us to the hot July suns, which we felt 
with aggravated force in the city ; so it was deter- 
mined that I should go with Eva and her maid to 
Woodlawn, while Lin, with the judge and Harry, 
proceeded to Richmond to pay the last honors to the 
body of the unfortunate Mrs. Dalrymple. She had 
been laid in the family-vault of the Harrisons until 
Eva was well enough to be left, for Lin would not 
be satisfied until her mother was placed beside her 
husband. The child seemed anxious that nothing 
should be left undone which could honor the dead. 

“ My poor mother !” she said. “ Her misfortunes 
were the inevitable result of her early education. 
If only she had had half the advantages enjoyed by 


CONCLUSION. 


329 


her children, I feel sure, Maxy, she would have de- 
veloped a rare character.” 

1 am afraid I was not so enthusiastic as Lin wished 
me to be, because I was too near to these remarkable 
changes of opinion to be fairly settled in them. 

Our plans were carried out by the last week in 
July. Lin, with the two gentlemen, found us at 
Woodlawn. In spite of the scenes through which 
we had passed, the summer was very pleasant. It 
was delightful to see Lin recovering her wonted 
elasticity of temper amid the dear old scenes. Har- 
ry and herself resumed their rides and walks ; they 
even undertook the Woodlawn News by way of re- 
newing old times. 

It was agreed by Harry, Lin and myself that 
Eva’s part in Lin’s exile should never be known 
beyond ourselves. Mercy to Eva was a part of the 
reason for this decision, but I think it was more to 
spare the dear old judge the knowledge which would 
crush him more than any other type of affliction 
could do. 

There was great rejoicing in the neighborhood 
at Lin’s return, as she was a favorite with all. 
Frank Macon and his wife were at the Oaks for 
the summer, and the minute he saw Lin he recol- 
lected their collision on the streets of Baltimore. 

“I told Jane,” he said, “when I got home, I 
could not get it out of my head that I had seen you.” 

Mrs. Campbell came over to rejoice and condole, 


330 


UNDER THE PR UNJNG-KN1FE. 


and, as usual, took a matrimonial view of every- 
thing. 

“Well, Linda,” she said, “I suppose Harry and 
yourself will very soon bring matters between you 
to a conclusion ?” 

Lin blushed and said in her subdued way, 

“ Yes, ma’am, I suppose so.” 

“Ah, my dear! you are at your happiest now, 
take my word for it. When you have been through 
all I have, you will realize the truth of what I say.” 
Then, turning to Eva, who in her widow’s weeds 
looked touchingly beautiful, she said, “And you, 
my dear — you must know how I sympathize with 
you. I have been through it four times, and really 
Mr. Campbell is so delicate I sometimes fear I may 
be called upon again.” 

Well, Harry and Lin were married very quietly 
at Woodlawn shortly before the annual autumn 
flitting, waiting until after the marriage of Tom 
Hastings and Katie, Tom having satisfactorily 
established his reputation as a sober-minded man 
who could be depended upon. As all Katie’s broth- 
ers had left home for their life-work, Tom was per- 
suaded to drop the law-book and take up farming. 
Mrs. Macon lived with them, but gladly laid down 
the reins of offlce, only acting as general supervisor 
and counselor. 

Eva was much altered and improved ; but as the 
Ethiopian cannot change his skin nor the leopard 


CONCLUSION. 


331 


his spots, so in her passion for admiration she was 
Eva still. Her old self-complacency was greatly 
lessened, and her devotion to and confidence in Lin* 
had in them something almost reverential. To us 
who knew all the circumstances of her life there was 
something pathetic in her strivings to overcome the 
want of truthfulness in her character, and I think 
she did in the end. 

Eva was one whose life was incomplete without 
some one to minister to her love of applause, so 
none of us were surprised when she accepted Lyle 
Wallace’s hand after two years of widowhood. And 
they suited each other admirably : he had never 
seen any one who could vie with continental beau- 
ties except Eva, whose singular beauty, in Lyle’s 
eyes, might be accounted for by the French blood 
in her veins. 

Forty years have passed, with their lights and 
shadows, since the events which make up this story, 
but I forbear to speak of the wrinkles and cares 
which have come in the course of nature. I will 
not tell of the gradual laying up of our treasures in 
heaven ; I imagine my readers would rather think 
of my dramatis personce as they have known them. 
I will say only that our Lin’s dark hour passed in 
the days I have told you about ; I have never known 
a happier, more peaceful and prosperous life than 
she and Harry have had. Woodlawn is their home, 
and they love it for the past and for the present ; 


332 


UNDER THE PR UNING-KN1FE. 


and when with the summer breezes the clan comes 
clustering about the sacred hearth, the old familiar 
names are household words, for Harry calls the echo 
for the children of this generation, and Lin is a 
worthy successor to “ grandma.” 


THE END. 













